


Lost Kingdom

by redseeker



Series: Three Kings [2]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, M/M, Romance, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 76,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redseeker/pseuds/redseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having struck a pact to share the Decepticon lordship, Megatron and Starscream journey across the galaxy to reunite the lost Decepticon army. Meanwhile, Lockdown finds the tomb of the fallen war hero, Prowl, and discovers Starscream isn't the only dead mech rising from the grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grave-Robber

**Author's Note:**

> With unending thanks to Devcon03, my life-mate, enabler, partner-in-crime, and plot-doctor. This story wouldn't have been possible without her.
> 
> NB: Please read 'King Nothing' first, as this story follows directly on from that one.

The tomb had drifted a long way from Cybertron. Lockdown eased the _Death's Head_ close enough to scan. A long, black obelisk floating aimlessly through space, the mausoleum had fallen into orbit around a gas giant in the lonely Paddra system. There were no other ships around, no habitation until the next solar system. He docked the ship, his small craft clinging like a space barnacle to the huge, dark mass of the Cybertronian tomb. 

He extended a bridge, armed himself, and set out to explore. The tall main doors had Autobot insignias painted in dusty red, marked here and there by soot and laser burns. They creaked and opened a few feet as he approached. It seemed Lockdown was not the first to rob this grave. He squeezed through the gap, and was grateful that the gate-keeper sensors identified his residually Autobot energy signature. As he stepped inside the cavernous entry hall, blue tinted energon lamps flickered online around the walls. He activated a holo-display from a panel on his forearm and ran a quick scan of the entrance chambers. The scan showed zero life forms. He waited an astrosecond or two to allow his extended sensors to begin to generate a rudimentary map on the display. While that ran, he stepped deeper into the entrance hall.

The ceiling was high and dark, and the black metal walls were engraved all over with symbols and intricate monochrome icons. Lockdown recognised scenes from the oldest of Cybertronian tales – Primus and Unicron locked in battle on one wall, and on another, the two same gods coiled around each other in a passionate, harmonious embrace. He saw the Allspark, the source of all life in the Cybertronian universe. Sparks were borne from its holy power, and when they were extinguished, a bot's essence returned to the mystical Well of All Sparks. So the stories told, at least. Lockdown passed the carvings with barely a glance or a thought. 

A second set of double doors led straight on from the main chamber, while several smaller dark tunnels opened onto the sides of the room. Lockdown consulted his map. The mausoleum had a heavy cargo, but the largest shrine held some kind of war hero. It was the reason he had tracked this graveyard down. 

He had to pry open the second set of doors. He didn't fancy trying the smaller tunnels – if he didn't get lost in the maze then he'd be eaten by grave-dwelling critters. There were always some parasites aside from the grave-robbers coasting with these kinds of craft, carrion-eaters that thrived on rust and dead metal. Lockdown made his way slowly and cautiously through the broad tunnels, past rows of holographic portraits of the bots interred to his left and right. It was dead silent, and his steps echoed with unsettling volume. He kept his weapons primed. 

He found Prowl's grave empty. He'd only had the weapons, mods, and creds on his mind mind when he tracked and boarded the ghost ship, but there was Prowl's name, engraved in Autobot glyphs upon the largest marker in the central hall, the grave of a decorated hero of war. The glass covering the dais where the body should have lain, however, had been shattered, and the body was gone. 

Lockdown stared for a long time, stunned, frustrated, and torn. Then, he suddenly exploded into motion and shot the remainder of the grave – dais and marker both – and threw his blaster down. He turned away with a strangled shout. 

The other graves were in varying states of desecration. Many of the bodies were still there, but missing armour, weapons, and valuables. Lockdown took what he could and tossed it into his subspace. He kept wandering the echoing halls long after he had taken everything the graves could yield. He told himself he was being thorough, scanning the side chambers and sub levels for hidden treasure chambers, but deep inside his black spark he knew he was searching for Prowl. He knew, too, that ever since he first started tracking the mausoleum's distant signal across the galaxy, Prowl had been his hidden goal. He grit his teeth and refused to acknowledge either truth.

He found him, after joors of wandering, in the Allspark shrine at the far end of the craft. Curled beneath the altar as though tossed away like refuse, his optics were dark and his plating was grey. The previous raiders had moved him, stripped him of his weapons, and left him here... Lockdown didn't wait to wonder on the in between. 

He had been buried in the armour Lockdown made. The weapons had been stripped from him, but the heavy plating and Yoketron's helm had been left. Lockdown stepped close, very slowly. The blue energon lamps were dimmer here, and illuminated religious holo-icons on the wall panels with an eerie light. The place gave him the creeps. 

He stooped and pulled Prowl's brittle frame into his arms. The ninja seemed smaller and lighter than he should, Lockdown thought. Like an empty shell of the mech he had so fleetingly known, as if the spark was a thing that had weight. He turned for the door and gently lifted Prowl over his shoulder, careful not to damage his frame with his shoulder spikes. Finished with the tomb at last, he retraced his steps to the _Death's Head_ , and left the ghost ship behind.

*****

He cleared a corner in his workroom and set Prowl down upon the bench. There was a lot of superficial damage to be cleaned up, but scratches and nicks could be buffed out easily enough, and the missing weapons replaced. He vented a sigh and carefully sat Prowl up against the wall. The dead mech's head lolled to the side, his visor dark. Lockdown swallowed. There was a tiny crack in the glass. 

Lockdown reached out and unclipped the visor. His hand shook slightly, and he hesitated before lifting away the glass. Prowl's optics were lightless below. Lockdown stared.

Grimly, he turned to the central workbench and spent some time repairing the visor using some leftover glue Swindle had sold him a bulk lot of a few thousand years back. It took a long time, filling the gap, filing and polishing the fine, optical-grade glass. No doubt the ninja would need a new one if he ever tried to actually look through the visor, but for Lockdown, for now, it was enough that it _looked_ intact. 

When at last he was reasonably satisfied, he returned to Prowl's corner and replaced the visor with a careful touch. He stepped back and stared at his peculiar trophy, and wondered just what in spark he was supposed to do now.

What he ought to do, what any sane mech in his position ought to do, was strip the bot for parts, toss the junk, and move on. It was as simple as that. 

The _Death's Head_ drifted a lazy course through the next three systems. Lockdown took a couple of easy jobs, requesting payment in the form of a new holo-generator, lightweight jump-jet boosters, and an energy sabre. He picked up some black and gold paint from a small artisans' convoy he happened to pass. And all the while, against all of the hunter's better judgement, Prowl remained a shadowy non-presence in the corner of the workroom. 

Lockdown was easing the ship past a slim asteroid belt just off Antar when the intruder alarm started to screech. Hunched in one of the holds picking through a stash of weapons stolen from his most recent marks, Lockdown listened to the siren in incomprehension. There was no way anybot could have sneaked on board, and he hadn't docked anywhere for solar cycles. He drew in a heavy intake and uncurled his old, creaking frame, rising to his feet even as a cold creeping feeling shivered down his backstrut. He transformed his hand into a chainsaw, and left the hold to track down the rogue signal.


	2. Xerissa

Starscream watched the viz-screen listlessly. He didn't know where the frag they were, but somehow he had been landed with guard duty. He was the captain, how did the captain end up with guard duty? He sighed and slumped down, his head on his arms, leaning on the navigation console. 

They were approaching a large planet, slowly. Megatron had decided they should forgo space-bridge travel until they were more sure of the status of the Elite Guard's pursuit, which made their galactic wandering both aimless and slow. Starsceam and Blitzwing had made sure the ship dampened their Decepticon signals somewhat – fortunately the _Lady Luck_ had been a neutral slaver, and thus only attracted the attention of the law if they tried to trade without, presumably, a Commonwealth-approved slaver's license. Starscream smirked, imagining Swindle, the mech who had tried to sell him into slavery himself, rusting in a cell back on Akeron prison. It was a pleasing image. 

He yawned and stood up. The console bleeped to let him know they were approaching for entry. He sighed. He would have to wake Megatron. 

The ship was quiet during the down shift. The powerful engines hummed away, and the backup lights glowed reassuring violet. It almost reminded Starscream of “home” – the _Nemesis_.

Before he reached the captain's suite he and Megatron were still obstinately sharing, he passed the door to the crew quarters. He paused and looked in.

Blitzwing and Vault sat on adjacent berths playing cards. Starscream ducked into the long, narrow room and approached. The two mechs looked up. Blitzwing hesitated, and then stood and offered a hasty salute. Vault watched him with an ironic look, and threw a lazy salute from where he sat. Starscream glared and rolled his shoulders. Blitzwing's carelessness irked him, but he knew there was only so much he could expect of Vault. Though he declared himself a Decepticon, only decacycles ago he had been a steadfast Autobot. He was a bought mech, and Starscream knew better than to expect any more than that. The fact that he found the black mech's company agreeable helped matters only a little. 

He sat on Vault's berth and folded his arms. “Relax,” he said, and Blitzwing sat back down.

Vault smirked at him. “Want to join the game?” he said. 

“No,” Starscream said with a sigh. “We're almost within range of Xeriss Alpha, I want to take the ship down.” He flexed his wings subtly. He had spent so long either grounded, imprisoned, or in weightless space he had almost forgotten what real flying felt like. He stretched. “What are you playing for? Real creds?” 

“Energon cubes,” Blitzwing said, waving to the small, goodie-sized blue cubes. Starscream picked one up. The fuel was tinted blue, a strange exotic treat pilfered from Swindle's cargo hold.

“Get yourselves prepped, we're going to land in a few joors,” Starscream said and rose to his feet. Staying and joining the game was appealing when faced with his alternative. However, he knew he had no choice. “I have to go and wake sleeping beauty.”

He popped the goodie into his mouth and left the two mechs - all that was left, aside from Megatron and himself, of the once great Decepticon army - to their friendly gambling and made his way deeper into the core of the ship toward the captain's suite.

He braced himself before tapping a code into the keypad, squaring his shoulders and drawing a deep breath. The door opened, and he stepped inside.

The lights were down, the stars sailing smoothly past the large window. Megatron lay on the big, wide berth on his back. He was still, and seemed to still be in recharge.The door slid shut behind Starscream disappointingly silently. To make up for it, he strode across the room to the private fuel store, opened it, withdrew a cube, and slammed the door shut loudly. Megatron onlined with a start, and Starscream smiled.

Megatron's optics found him, the haziness of waking clearing in an astrosecond. Starscream held his gaze. Then, cube in hand, he tossed his head. “Rise and shine, mighty Megatron,” he sneered. 

Megatron sat up. He still moved with a degree of stiffness. Starscream wondered if they would have to find a medic while they were on Xeriss. Primus knew what kind of old wounds Megatron had festering – slow rusts and ill-lubricated joints left to decay over the years. His decrepit frame, combined with the questionable state of his mind, gave Starscream his first real doubts about this plan of his. If Megatron was to be the figurehead of leadership Starscream's rightful troops must rally around to crush the Autobots once and for all, he would need to make a considerable improvement. 

Starscream crossed to the window and watched the stars stream past. He took a sip of fuel. One thing he could say about Swindle – he had decent taste in energon. The strong liquid burnt Starscream's glossa and felt warm on the way down his throat. He had found, since his improbable resurrection, that he needed to consume more, and more powerful, energon if he wanted to stay on top of his game. 

“We're within range of the planet?” Megatron's vocals were smooth, with a gravelly undertone borne of newly-woken sleepiness. Starscream found himself annoyed. 

“You asked me to wake you when we were on the approach,” he said tersely. He turned back to Megatron. “So yes. Xeriss Alpha. The files say it's originally an organic planet, but scans show a small Cybertronian population on the northern continent. We're well out of range of Autobot patrols out here, so they must be. We'll take the ship down for repairs and resupply.” 

They had been drifting for weeks. When they came across an unmanned or neutral-controlled space bridge they would make a jump, but only ever dancing around the outskirts of the Autobot Commonwealth. Given their rank and history, he judged their escape had caused a stir. Even weeks later, the Guard would be looking for them. The first chance he got to access the mercenary feed he would see what kind of a price was on their helms. 

Megatron stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and tilted his helm to one side and then the other. Starscream watched him with critical optics. 

Over the past few weeks, he had avoided Megatron as much as possible. They were cold and snide to each other on the rare times they actually spoke, and the distance between them yawned like a transwarp rift. Starscream was up long into the down shifts, while Megatron seemed to sleep away all the hours Primus gave. Whenever Starscream needed to recharge, Megatron vacated the berth and went to brood on the bridge. As such, they saw as little of each other as was possible.

Starscream didn't talk about what had happened on the night of their escape. He certainly did not talk about what had almost happened. There were no more kisses, and no frank talk. He kept his tone snide and clipped, and Megatron remained brusque and closed off. 

To the others, Megatron was as smooth and able as he had always been. He gave commands with easy authority, and cut a dignified picture in the captain's chair. But Starscream knew better, and could see closer. He saw what he was sure Vault and Blitzwing did not. Megatron's imprisonment had glitched him worse than perhaps even the fallen warlord knew. 

Megatron was watching Starscream with placid, steady optics. The silence between them put Starscream on edge. 

“What?” he snapped. “Get some fuel and get ready.” He gestured toward the energon storage unit. 

Megatron looked like he wanted to say something – reprimand him for his impertinence, for example – but he didn't speak. Instead he moved to the storage and did as Starscream told him. 

Starscream finished his cube in a series of deep gulps. He was in a hurry to be out of Megatron's presence, and was saved from the hardship by a private comm call from Vault. He accepted the channel and opened the link.

“Lord Starscream, sir.”

“You don't have to sound so amused when you call me that,” Starscream replied over the locked frequency, so Megatron couldn't hear. He gave Megatron a brief glance before turning once again to the window. Megatron moved around quietly behind him, and Starscream tried to ignore him. 

“Sorry sir,” Vault said.

“What is it?” Starscream snapped in response.

“Do you want us to take her straight down or slip into orbit first?”

“Straight down. Find somewhere.”

“There's a city in the northern hemisphere – small by Cybertronian standards, but there should be _some_ decent supplies there.”

Starscream nodded. “All right. Stop wasting my time, you don't need me to hold your servo while you land the ship, do you?” He cut the transmission abruptly, irritated at his subordinates' lack of initiative. Was he, Starscream, the only half-functional mechanism on this ship? He leaned his hand on the window and felt the cold of space seep through and chill his lifeless frame down to the struts. What a joke – the only functional mech, and he was dead.

“Your lieutenant keeps you well informed,” Megatron said. Starscream whirled on him. His wings hiked up, and his energy field and body language both radiated defensive hostility. 

“Are you listening in on my conversations, now?” he hissed.

“I don't need to,” Megatron said and took a slow sip of his energon. He didn't look at Starscream.

Starscream glowered. “Stay out of it,” he advised. He left their shared quarters and stalked his way back to the bridge.

*****

Xeriss Alpha was a bleak little dirt-ball of a planet. It reminded Starscream of Earth in its climate and geological make-up. The indigenous sentient species was a humanoid, primitive race that stayed away from the Cybertronian colonies in the north. The neutrals mined the planet for ores and energon. While most of their habitation took the form of isolated outposts amid the mountains and rocky deserts, there was one sizeable city nestled in the centre of a northern mountain range, well out of reach of meddling organics. 

Vault brought the _Lady Luck_ down onto a landing platform high above the city. The city itself, Xerissa, seemed to have been designed by aerial models. Constructed in rising platforms and spindly towers, it seemed at once industrially strong and ethereally insubstantial. The highest levels were draped in cloud. 

The platform they put down on was above the cloud-line. Starscream disembarked, walked to the edge, and looked down. All he saw was a sea of soft white. The wind was cold, and caught his wings in sweet, sharp gusts. 

Megatron followed him off the ship, and Blitzwing after him. Vault remained on board to keep everything secure. If Starscream were to have one of them with him in alien territory alongside Megatron, he would rather have chosen his own hired mech than Megatron's loyal creature, but Blitzwing's status as a flier was judged to be advantageous given the local population and the design of the city, which would be hard for a grounder to navigate.

A femme and two mechs came to meet them. The sight of Starscream, Blitzwing, and Megatron's Decepticon brands caused their expressions to harden, and Starscream saw no hint of welcome in their glittering optics. The silver femme who led the party addressed Megatron. “We know who you are,” she said. She showed no deference in her body language, and the bots that flanked her – both tall, heavy war builds – eyed Starscream's party with stony appraisal. “There's no room for your warmongering here.”

“We are mechs like any other,” Megatron said. He kept his vocals smooth and even, and his expression mild. “After all, the war is over.”

The femme frowned and folded her arms. “Indeed?”

“Allow my party to refuel and resupply – that is all we ask.”

The neutrals exchanged glances. Starscream was ready to step forward and take charge, when the femme said, somewhat grudgingly, “My designation is Whisper. Welcome to Xerissa. Accommodation can be found below the cloud-line. If you need a guide talk to Shadow,” she nodded to the darkly painted mech to her left, “otherwise, don't cause any trouble.”

Megatron nodded amicably. Starscream curled his lip in disgust. His once great leader would allow some neutral nobody talk to him like that? 

He turned away and left Megatron to sort out the formalities. For a small neutral enclave, they seemed pretty secretive and reluctant to allow visitors. Starscream supposed they had survived so long here precisely because they were so under the Autobot empire's radar. To the Autobots, a neutral was just a Decepticon without a brand. The Guard would wipe out Xerissa and claim Xeriss and its rich mineral resources for the Commonwealth if the little planet ever came to their attention. Starscream strode back to the platform's edge. He gave Megatron and the locals one quick backward glance, and then he jumped off. 

The clouds rushed up to meet him. He grinned and laughed as he let himself free-fall into them. As soon as their icy vapour kissed his face he yelled and gracefully transformed. He was dimly aware of someone calling his name. Megatron, he supposed. He activated his thrusters in a flash and with an almighty _boom_ he was away, skimming the clouds and leaving vapour trails from his wing-tips. He wheeled and rolled, overtaken by the pure joy of riding the winds. 

He dipped through the clouds and out the other side. Xerissa spread beneath him, towers he couldn't call beautiful in their utilitarian, cobbled-together-from-necessity appearance but which nonetheless evoked something inside him, stirred some long archived files of an ancient crystal city. The city was nestled in a natural valley surrounded by harsh grey mountains dusted with snow. The winds were strong, and he weaved around the many-layered structures of the city and the surrounding mountains, getting a taste for the air. 

Soon he was joined by another jet, and he shifted easily into simple formation. Blitzwing followed his rolls and turns. The triple-changer wasn't quite as agile in the air as Starscream, but flying together felt natural and right to the seeker. It had been so long since he'd had any kin to fly with. Blitzwing was a weak substitute for real seeker kin, but he felt it, all the same.

He transformed and landed, at last, on an isolated platform jutting from the side of one of the mountains. Snow crushed and melted beneath his thrusters. The air was crisp and cold. He watched Bitzwing circle and come in to land also. He transformed and touched down at Starscream's side. 

“Feels good to stretch your wings, eh Starscream?” Blitzwing said with a broad, red grin. 

Starscream nodded. A dot in the distant sky caught his attention. He curled his lip.

“Someone doesn't share our joy in the skies,” he said as Megatron flew closer. 

Eventually Megatron reached them. His helicopter alt form was slow and cumbersome compared to the agility of a jet, and Starscream thought he looked laughable lumbering through skies populated by the winged inhabitants of Xerissa. Megatron transformed and landed so heavily snow fell from the ledge in a trembling cascade. 

“Starscream,” Megatron growled. 

Starscream put his hands on his hips. “Yes?” He stared the old warlord down, and refused to be cowed. He would not allow Megatron to misjudge the new balance of power between them to be anything less than they agreed. 

Megatron grew flustered at the flagrant disrespect. He glanced at Blitzwing, then back to Starscream, and drew himself up. Starscream could see the control it took not to lash out. He wanted to reprimand Starscream for his insolence, for flying off alone so recklessly in the alien and unknown city. But he was not the sole leader any more. He and Starscream both knew the debt he owed Starscream put them on very different ground to where they had stood a thousand years ago. 

“...Vault has secured the ship,” Megatron eventually said.

“Good.” Starscream acknowledged Megatron's defeat with a smirk. “Why don't we see what this city has to offer?”

Megatron looked at him in cold disgust, and, after a tense pause, acquiesced.

*****

They spent three days in Xerissa. The planet's days were long, and up in the high levels where Starscream chose to stay, the large white sun was bright and warmed his wings as he flew. Starscream spent the days flying and scouting, and the nights hunting intelligence and supplies. The _Lady Luck_ had a reasonable set of star charts, but Xeriss floated in a distant and seldom-charted quadrant, and if they wanted to plot their route ahead they would need accurate maps. Blitzwing busied himself improving the ship's weapons and fine-tuning the engines with the help of some local engineers. Vault wandered down through the towers' many levels and found bars and amusements enough to keep him occupied. Megatron paced the captain's suite and grew restless. 

On the afternoon of the third day, Starscream was tracing the line of a glacial ridge to the east of the city when his sensors told him a second jet had joined him in the sky. Expecting Blitzwing, he eased his speed down and waited for the triple-changer to slip behind his wing.

He was surprised when a much smaller jet zoomed past him, accelerating and rolling into a corkscrew in the open space before him. The bright sunlight flashed off gleaming silver wings, and Starscream mimicked the roll, following the trails from the small craft's wings. 

He followed the silver jet, weaving around, over and under it, before he decided to let his competitive instincts take over. He was the fastest in the 'verse, after all. He fired his thrusters and shot ahead of the sleeker plane. His sensors flashed over the silver form, and he recognised the energy signature of Whisper, the femme who had met him on his arrival.

He wheeled ahead, transformed, and coasted lazily. He laughed as she flitted around him in elegant, playful loops. She had seemed so serious when they last met, he had never thought she'd have the spark of a sky-dancer. 

“You fly like a real seeker,” he shouted over the wind.

She transformed and twirled straight up, slowing, her slender thrusters burning with blue fire. “So do you,” she replied. “Fly with me.”

She tipped her body backward, free-fell for a spark-stopping moment and then transformed and shot away with the wind. Starscream grinned, transformed, and followed her. 

They flew for joors, though it felt like nothing but a spark's pulse to Starscream. Whisper knew the old dances, and they flew in synchronised grace above the mountains and weaved their vapour trails in ancient patterns around the city's towers. Starscream felt more alive than he had since before the scrap-heap. 

The sun was going down by the time they touched down. Whisper had led him to a high, snowy ledge almost at the top of one of the mountains. Beneath them the city glittered in the dusk, and ahead, behind the shadows of the mountains, the sun turned the sky red as it set. 

“Where did you learn to fly like that?” Starscream asked, though he thought he already knew the answer.

Whisper, quiet and reserved once more, walked to the edge of the platform. She was a little under two thirds of Starscream's height, and her frame had the slightness and easy grace typical for a femme. Her wings were elegantly tapered, and he saw now that the silver metal was engraved with subtle markings. He moved closer to see more clearly. 

“You should know the sky-dances of ancient Vos when you fly them,” Whisper said. True to her name, her voice was smooth and hushed. She didn't look at him. Her optics were on the sunset and the city. Starscream looked at her wings, and knew what he saw. Ancient clan markings, tattoos that told who she was, who she flew with, where she came from and who she fought for. Had fought for, once. It was a tradition he thought had died aeons ago – an anachronism, an artefact from another time. 

“You're from Vos,” Starscream said. He rested one hand on his hip and pointed his optics toward the towers. He knew why they felt familiar now. Their design was deliberate. The city was a ghost, an echo of a lost time. 

“I am,” Whisper said. “My guards, Shadow and Evenfall, are as well.”

“...I see.”

Whisper cycled a breath and sat down. Her feet dangled off the edge of the outcrop, and she drew one knee up and wrapped her arms around it. After a moment, Starscream joined her. He sat with his elbows on his knees, and idly watched organic birds wheeling below them.

“Are you a trine?” Starscream asked. 

Whisper smiled. “We are. The wingmates I was sparked with perished long ago, and Shadow and Evenfall never told me what happened to their third. They don't need to. We are three, now. I don't need to tell you the meaning of kin.”

Starscream shook his head. “No.” It was a long, long time since he'd thought about his own unit. Dead before the war could really start, Starscream had flown alone for so long he had almost forgotten them. Flying with Blitzwing the other cycle had brought some of it back to him, if only in a nameless feeling. 

Whisper seemed to want to talk. Her words were clear, even if her vocals were dialled low. 

“They were Decepticons, deserters millions of years ago.” She looked at Starscream. “Any brand of Decepticon justice would be ill-placed here,” she assured him. Starscream waved his hand – he doubted Megatron would hold that grudge this long. “I was sparked neutral – before the Destron factions split, before any of the ruling elite's politics had any sway over our city. You remember Vos as she was? Isolated and independent, a beacon in the desert.”

Starscream nodded. In truth, most of his memory files of his home had been long archived, deleted, or corrupted. He barely knew the language any more. 

“After Vos fell...” Whisper shook her head. “I wanted no part of the war. Autobot or Decepticon, it didn't matter. The conflict had destroyed my home. It made no difference which set of tyrants won the day.”

“A lot of Vosians took the brand that cycle,” Starscream said. He was trying to remember. His brand had come later, but his spark had been won before his home burned. 

“I understand that. Shadow and his brothers were three of them, I gather. Me, I was lost... for a long time.” She looked down. Her optics were clouded. They sat in silence, Starscream watching the femme's face. After a few kliks her gaze lifted and she gestured toward the towers, shadowed now in the growing twilight. “All this... It's a small vestige, I know. A pitiful shadow of what was once the jewel of Cybertron.” Starscream followed her optics. He almost thought he could see the outlines of the ancient crystal towers sketched out in the rough shapes of the city. “But it's more than that. Here we're safe, out here we are beyond the ravages of your war.”

“The war is over,” Starscream murmured. “Or so they say.”

“Really?” Whisper smiled bitterly. “And tell me, is our city rebuilt? Is our home restored?”

“...I don't know.” Starscream looked away. “The Autobots forced us into exile. I've never been back.”

Whisper cycled a slow, sad sigh. “You see? What good is victory or conquest if what you fight for is destroyed? ...You don't have to answer that.” Her optics flicked to the markings on Starscream's wings – simple, martial stripes, and his brands. “You wouldn't understand.”

Starscream hunched in sullen silence. “You would rather hide here on this rock,” he said, after a while.

“Yes,” Whisper said without hesitation. “It's a small, new settlement now, but the planet is rich, and we can thrive here. The organics leave us alone, the Autobots don't know we're here. We're runaways and deserters, pacifists and cowards, I suppose. But your war touched each of us. We all carry our own grief.” She touched her chest-plate. “Here we can build a future, instead of dwelling on our past.”

“Some future,” Starscream murmured. “You're in exile too. It's just self-imposed.”

“No. I was forced from my home the cycle it was destroyed. But... for the new-sparks, this place is home instead.”

Starscream turned to her with wide optics. His face bore a stunned look. “New-sparks?”

Whisper nodded. “Xerissa was first founded by Cybertronian deserters and refugees, but many of its citizens were sparked here.”

“How... How is that possible?” Starscream frowned in incomprehension. “Without the Allspark, and this far from the Well-”

Whisper's smile was gentle and knowing. “You would be surprised. The Allspark isn't the only power source capable of creating new life.” She touched her chest again. “We carry a piece of that power in us all. All you need is for the conditions to be right.”

“Nonsense!” Starscream spluttered. “That-... that's just myth...”

“Have you seen the icons in the Metroplex? How about the Vosian temples? Do you remember...? The knowledge was all but lost in the aeons of war – ages of war, before even the one you fight. But the technology remains inside each of us.”

Starscream knew the myth, but it was only metaphor, spiritual mumbo-jumbo – all sparks interconnected pieces of a larger power, the soul of the planet itself. Pure energy. Pure creation. Every protoform received the stories in their initial educational download. It was a fairy tale. 

“All life comes from the Allspark,” he croaked, the rote-learned words sticking in his throat.

“All life comes from all sparks,” Whisper said with a playful smile. “Come. Starscream, fly with us tonight. When was the last time you danced with so many of your kin?”

Dumbly, Starscream nodded. His head was spinning. The Autobots' superior numbers had been a deciding factor in the direction the war took. The Decepticons could clone, to a degree, but real creation – that was something only the Allspark, or else the Well, could accomplish. The Allspark spent millions of years lost in the abyss, and the Well... Cybertron's heart dried up long ago, as far as Starscream knew. The whole reason Megatron had gone to such lengths to secure the Cyber-Ninja Corps' protoforms was because the Decepticons couldn't create their own.

He stood and caught Whisper's arm before she could take flight. “You said the conditions had to be right,” he said. “What are they? Tell me.”

She tilted her head. “War is no place for a new-spark. Think about that.” She shrugged free of his grip and leapt from the ledge. 

He dived after her and transformed. He followed her sleek alt-form as far as the first tower, when two larger jets descended through the clouds and took up position behind her wings. The three seekers were not his wingmates, but they _were_ his kin, he realised that now. 

They flew beyond the city. Flying north, deeper into the mountains, the air became thinner and colder, and ice crystallised on his wings. On an improbably vast peak perched a slender, broken tower that looked older and more elegant than any in the city. The remaining half of the roof roof was domed, engraved glass set in a silvery framework, and a gleaming spire rose from its centre.

Whisper and her wingmates led him in a circle of the tower. Starscream laughed and rolled, inviting them to play. Whisper was the first to continue their dance from earlier; Shadow and Evenfall followed Whisper's lead. 

As the night wore on, other groups of aerials arrived, descending from the clouds or flying from the city. Starscream swept his scanners over the area and sensed jets of all sizes and clans. He followed Whisper's trine through dives and turns, rolls and sweeping circles. They weaved around one another, tasting the cool wind on their wings and the pure exhilaration of flying with their kin. 

All of a sudden, something rippled through the air, some subtle alteration. Starscream couldn't pin it down, it was something in the shifts of the air, but he realised the group around him were altering their flight, pulling up or circling restlessly. There was an anxious tension in their wings, and Starscream transformed and hovered on his thrusters. The group pulled away from him and wheeled around the tower, with Whisper and her wingmates at the formation's head.

He looked around. His sensors alerted him to a new signal – one he hadn't noticed before simply by way of it being so familiar. Standing atop the ridge, a few hundred feet from the tower, was a ground mech with dark paint. Vault.

*****

Vault had followed Starscream from the city. He was the seeker's bodyguard in all but name, and Starscream had been missing for joors. The blasted glitch's lack of an energy signal didn't exactly help a mech to keep track of him, so when he'd seen the red jet flash across the darkening sky he had cursed and given chase. Without Starscream, Vault was sure Megatron would cease to tolerate him, and he didn't feel like being left stranded on a planet full of prickly aerials. 

The distance from the city to the tower wasn't far for a bot with wings, but Vault had been forced to walk for a joor and a half. He was aching, scuffed, and regretting chasing after the mad seeker at all. 

When he raised his optics to the tower, however, and saw the seekers circling and weaving in the night air, the starlight bouncing and glinting off so many wings, his intakes caught in his throat. They didn't seem to notice him. He clambered up the ridge and leaned against a boulder while he let his fans even out. He watched the jets' intricate loops and realised the movements were far from random – he was witnessing free-form precision, flourishes added to the same motifs he saw again and again. They were flying a pattern, a dance, all of them together. He saw a flash of red, dark in the night's gloom, and recognised Starscream. He flew with a flare and grace the others seemed to lack, a reckless, aggressive passion. His twists were faster, his loops bigger, his dives deeper. 

Vault lacked the memory, the knowledge, to truly understand what he was seeing, but it felt _old_. He was seeing a vestige of another world – not only a history and culture not his own, but one that had long since disappeared from the 'verse. Another casualty in the long war. 

As he watched, the flow of the jets' flight changed. He saw the restless tension permeate the whole cloud, and the way they drew up and away as if having sighted a threat on the ground. He saw the deadly grace with which they formed up, flew a circle around the tower, and wheeled back toward him. There were hundreds of them, a glittering black cloud of angry death-machines, and every weapon was trained on him.

“...Oh, slag,” he hissed. 

He put his hands up and started to open a comm, but the squadron had already rounded the tower and the silver jet in the lead was entering a dive. The seeker opened fire before Vault could even speak. The first bolts hit him in the shoulder, taking out his cannon in an explosion of sparks. He yelled in agony and threw himself to the ground behind the boulder as laser-fire churned the ground to a smoking smelt-pool. The silver jet swooped past him and circled wide for another pass. On this side of the rock, Vault was wide open to attack. Two heavier jets were flanking the small silver craft, while the rest of the squadron spread out into a spiralling tower above his feeble hiding spot.

Clutching his damaged shoulder, he found Starscream's frequency on his HUD and opened a channel. “Starscream?”

“Stay where you are,” Starscream snapped. Vault looked up. Staying put did not sound like a good idea. The hostile trine was bearing down on him. Vault pressed his back against the rock. He brought his hand up to cover his face – but the shots went wide. The rock behind him smouldered. In disbelief, Vault looked to the sky. The silver jet had broken off and was coursing away, one turbine flaming and leaving a trail of black smoke across the sky, while Starscream was engaging the other two. He fought in altmode, and as Starscream threw himself helm-first into battle Vault saw him use every scrap of daring, passion, and reckless aggression he had shown moments before in his sky-dance.

“Suicidal bastard,” Vault muttered. The two jets were bigger than Starscream, and heavier, but Starscream seemed undaunted. He rolled and dodged and shot with raw savagery. Vault would have stared at the spectacle if he wasn't in danger for his life. There was a whole flock of winged lunatics closing in, and he was out in the open. He gave Starscream one last look, and dashed for the tower. 

Several other jets got in glancing shots before he could throw himself through a gap in the derelict tower's base. He thanked the Allspark the place was crumbling apart – it was a tower built for aerials, with no means of access on the ground except for the cracks and fissures wrought by time and decay.

He pressed himself down against the ground as strafing fire threatened to turn the tower to rubble. He covered his helm, expecting damage, but the shooting stopped and the jets banked away. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and crawled back to the gap. Starscream was dodging and trading cannon-fire with three heavy jets, tumbling through the sky like an acrobat. One of his wings was smouldering. Vault watched in awe as Starscream took one of the jets down, then another. There were too many of the glitches, though, and he could never beat them all. Sooner or later they would overwhelm him with sheer numbers, and Starscream, being Starscream, would go down still fighting and screaming, guns still blazing. Vault knew Starscream wouldn't retreat. The question was why he had attacked in the first place. It was a hopeless battle, and for what? For Vault's sake? Even Vault knew it was lunacy.

A shell hit the tower and the building rocked. Vault threw himself down and covered his helm. He was cowering like a protoform. He sneered and sat up to check his cannon. Another shell hit the floor above, and Vault lost all thought of recalibrating his smouldering weapon. Fire blossomed above him, and half the tower was sheared away. His hiding place was suddenly open to the sky, and above him winged shapes blazed and grappled. 

He heard yelling voices above the roar of jet engines and the crackle of flames but he couldn't make out the words. He hunkered down by the ruins of a wall. He seemed to have been forgotten for now as the jets focused their attacks on Starscream. Somehow, Starscream was still online, and still fighting. 

There was a pain in his leg and his chassis, and his shoulder still burnt. He was leaking energon and his systems were starting to fail. There was nowhere to run to, though, not while the battle raged above him. If Vault moved from the tower's shelter he would die. 

He crouched in the lee of a low broken wall and watched the explosions in the sky. He didn't know how long he hid there, more helpless than he had ever been. Joors passed, and his frame screamed out for recharge and repair. The pool of energon beneath him grew. He curled up and put all his hopes in Starscream. Starscream's victory was the only way he would walk away from the burning tower now. 

Eventually, the sky began to lighten. The red tint of firelight gave way to a gradually brightening glow on the horizon. Vault shook himself alert and reset his sensors. He realised the explosions had stopped. His intakes cycling fast, he forced himself to kneel, and to raise his head above the shallow cover of the wall. 

Beyond the ridge, the sky was burning as the sun rose beyond the far mountains. Vault shielded his optics with his hand. Starscream hovered in the dawn sky, the sun rising behind him. His frame was battered and charred, still burning in places, but his wings were intact and sent flares of sunlight dancing off their tips. 

“Impossible,” Vault murmured. 

The other jets surrounded Starscream like a cloud. Some had been grounded, others hovered shakily. Several grey shells littered the ground. The silver jet that had shot out Vault's cannon was on her feet, leaning against one of her bigger wingmates. As Vault watched, she looked up at Starscream, and dipped her wings. One by one, her clan-mates did the same. Vault didn't have to be a seeker to see what that meant. 

He pushed himself to his feet. Starscream lowered the burn on his thrusters and slowly descended until his feet touched the ground. Vault could see the extent of damage on his frame, but Starscream didn't stumble. Vault didn't fear the seekers' wrath now Starscream had made them yield. He climbed over the wall and limped toward Starscream. 

“No more,” the silver jet said. Vault paused, a few paces behind the femme and her heavy guard. Her intakes rattled, and she favoured her wounded thruster. “I invited you here in peace, and you brought bloodshed. Attacked your own people... We yield... ”

Starscream looked at her. He was fierce and proud, and didn't show an ounce of pain. “This mech is mine,” he said, and he pointed to Vault. Vault froze as all optics turned on him. “You started this when you fired on him.”

The silver femme turned back to Starscream. “You did all this for _him_?” she said. “He's a stranger, an intruder. Of course we fired on him, an outsider-”

“He's mine,” Starscream said. His tone was sharp and hard as cut stone. “Do you still want to challenge me?”

The femme was silent for a moment. Then, she pulled away from her wingmate and stood, balancing carefully. “No,” she said. In a hushed and shocking moment, she bowed to the mech who had defeated her.

Starscream nodded. He waved his hand. The femme straightened, made a gesture to her troops, and then the sky was filled with winged shapes and the roar of engines. Vault stayed where he was until they shrank to black specks upon the horizon, flocking back toward the city. Starscream, too, remained standing, and watched the jets' silhouettes recede into the sunrise. 

Silence settled on the blasted mountainside. Starscream turned to Vault. There was a curious fire in his optics, something Vault had seen there once before. He went to him. Starscream took a step, and his legs buckled. Vault reached him and caught him, and guided him down to his knees. Starscream's armour was blackened and scorched. Up close, Vault could see every sheared plate, every claw mark, every burnt patch of protoform. Starscream was shivering, and he held onto Vault with a grip hard enough to hurt. Their energon mingled on the ground beneath them.

“That was some show,” Vault said. He realised he was trembling too, the result of exhaustion and fuel-loss. 

Starscream grinned. “It was, wasn't it?”

Vault looked skyward. “Can you fly back?”

Starscream nodded. “I could if I had the fuel. I'm not going to give them the pleasure of seeing me crash. You look like you're about to fall apart, too.” He pushed himself back to his feet. He swayed a bit, but stayed upright. “Come on.” He held out his hand.

Vault took it and stood. Carefully, they began to make their way back down the mountain, supporting each other as they went. It wasn't the most glorious ending to Starscream's night of victory, but they were both alive, and more than that... Vault sensed something had happened, something important. The seekers had yielded, and Starscream, in his madness and glory, had shown himself to be not only worthy, but the best of them.

*****

When they returned to the _Lady Luck_ dawn had come and gone, and the sun was rising toward the sky's zenith. Starscream's battle-high had faded as they had made their torturous way back to the city.

A brief scan put Megatron on the command deck. Starscream and Vault, leaning on each other, avoided that level and headed for Starscream's quarters. They hadn't spoken much on their way back. Both were too exhausted. 

Starscream keyed the pass-code into the door, and they tumbled inside. They made it to the berth and fell gratefully onto its soft sheets. Starscream kissed Vault tiredly. He lay on his back, and Vault sprawled over him. Starscream cupped his face with his long talons. Vault closed his optics. He looked weary. 

“Still online?” Starscream asked after a long silence. Their intakes had slowed, and their battered frames relaxed. 

Vault cycled a deep breath, and then stretched gingerly. “Still in one piece, thanks to you,” he said with a smirk. “Or should I say, no thanks to you? If I'd never gone chasing after you those maniacs wouldn't have attacked me.”

“Huh. That's gratitude,” Starscream grumbled. 

Vault cupped his face and kissed him firmly. “It _is_ gratitude,” Vault murmured against Starscream's lips. “You didn't need to take them all on for my sake, you mad glitch.”

Starscream frowned. “It's wasn't-”

Vault stopped him with another, shorter kiss. “I know.”

Starscream leant his forehead against Vault's. He _had_ thrown himself into battle to protect him, but not because he loved him. Because he was _his_. Vault wasn't one of Megatron's cronies, he'd sworn fealty to no mech, but he had followed Starscream across the galaxy. In the whole army, in the whole universe, Starscream had one mech who was loyal to _him_ alone. He wasn't going to let anybot take that away from him. 

“Thanks for saving my aft, Starscream,” Vault said lightly. “No bot's ever risked their chassis like that for me. Though I'd appreciate a little warning the next time I wind up following you into a nest of angry seekers.”

Starscream smirked. “You think there'll be a next time? I thought you were a mech with more sense.”

“You know I'd follow you anywhere,” Vault said with a smile. Starscream laughed and shook his head. “Hey,” Vault said. “Look at me.” Starscream complied, frowning. “I mean it.”

Starscream gave him a cynical look. “Are you swearing your undying loyalty?” 

Vault shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.

Starscream looked down. His sharp fingertips brushed over the centre of Vault's chest. The Autobot crest there had cracked and begun to peel, revealing the plain black paint beneath. It seemed Vault had not only painted over his old brand, but had replaced the armour altogether. Starscream held Vault's optics as he took an edge of the crest between his claws and pulled. It came off smoothly, leaving nothing but clean paint behind. 

The look in Vault's optics was intense. Starscream knew he understood. 

Starscream discarded the crumpled up sticker, and wrapped his arms around Vault. The black mech relaxed against his frame. Starscream turned his head toward him, and soon recharge took them both.


	3. Starscream's Lieutenant

When Starscream next awoke, the sky outside was the pale grey of late afternoon. He booted up slowly. His whole frame hurt. He had never missed his Allspark shard more, but at least his self-repair had done what it could.

Vault was sleeping next to him, half sprawled over Starscream's cracked cockpit. Starscream watched him for a few kliks. He slid his hand down Vault's back. The black mech stirred as Starscream's hand stroked over his aft, but didn't wake.

After a little while Starscream slipped out of Vault's arms and off the berth. He crossed to the little energon cache he and Megatron kept in their cabin for emergencies and retrieved a few cubes. He set a couple on the table by the berth for Vault, when he eventually woke, and drank the others himself. He gulped them down quickly, and instantly felt the rejuvenating effect of the fuel upon his system. It may still be a mystery just what was keeping him online, but energon certainly kept him moving.

He looked down at himself. He was a mess. There was a wash-room adjacent to the cabin's sleeping area, and Starscream made his way tiredly to it.

Once again, he found himself praising Swindle's expensive tastes. The décor was ostentatious, but the materials were good, everything fitted out to an exactingly high spec. The floor and walls were tiled in highly polished indigo, and a row of three large, square shower-heads hung from the ceiling above neat, small drains. Starscream moved to the furthest station and turned on the water. A few taps at the control panel and he had the water scented with a sweet, mild solvent, and adjusted to a temperature he liked. He relaxed under the flow. He cycled deep intakes, turned his face upward, and let his concerns fall away for all of half a joor.

Vault was still asleep when he returned to the berth-room. Starscream decided to leave him be. e locked the chamber door when he left.

As he was passing the galley, he met Megatron coming out. He looked haggard and pinched, the result of a sleepless night and fraught morning. The big mech stopped short and narrowed his optics at Starscream, and Starscream froze. Megatron's optics focused on the extensive damage to Starscream's frame.

“Starscream, where in spark have you been?” he demanded.

Starscream scowled. He was newly-awake and in no mood to be understanding. “What business is it of yours?”

“Starscream.” Megatron stepped forward, crowding Starscream. Suddenly Starscream's back was against the wall. Megatron glowered down at him. His frame was tense and his energy field crackled. “You've been gone for joors, on an unknown planet. Every attempt I've made to contact you has failed. The very least you could do is _explain_ -”

“The least _you_ could do is move the slag out of my way,” Starscream hissed. He put his hands on Megatron's chest and pushed. Megatron pushed back, and then his hand was around Starscream's throat. The back of Starscream's helm butted against the wall. Megatron looked stunned at his own actions, as though he had moved on instinct rather than intent, but his hand remained where it was. “Get your hands off me,” Starscream growled. “You're not my leader any more, and after the night-cycle I've had my tolerance is just about at its end.”

Megatron's grip on his throat tightened. “We _both_ lead, Starscream. Or have you forgotten? You owe me some respect.”

“I owe you _nothing_.” Starscream wrapped his hand around Megatron's wrist and gripped hard. His voice was low and dangerous. “You think I'm afraid of you? Please. You've been living in a delusion ever since I pulled you out of Akeron. _You_ owe _me_. You owe me your _life_. Not that that means slag to you. And you dare to call _me_ a traitor.”

Megatron hesitated, and then he sighed. Some of his anger seemed to slip away. “No, Starscream,” he said bitterly. “I haven't forgotten my debt.” He finally let go of Starscream's throat. He stepped away until his back hit the opposite wall. When he next spoke he sounded exhausted. “Why _did_ you free me, Starscream? I know it wasn't out of loyalty.”

Starscream rubbed his throat. “Don't make me laugh. No, it's exactly like I told you before – I need you. I need the soldiers who'll lay down their sparks for you.”

“None of them will swear their spark to _you_ , Starscream,” Megatron said. His optics were withdrawn and hard.

“So I thought,” Starscream said with a roll of his shoulders. He nodded his head in the rough direction of the cabin. “There's one mech who will. I'm giving him the brand.”

“The prison guard?” Megatron gave a humourless bark of laughter. “The mech is a deserter, an Autobot.”

“He's a Decepticon, and he's mine.”

“I will not brand that traitor. He deserves to die for his treachery.”

“As do I,” Starscream said. He grinned viciously “And yet here I am.”

Megatron's lip curled in a look of utter disgust. “...We leave this planet at sundown,” he bit. Abruptly he turned and strode away. Starscream watched him go with a sneer on his face, before continuing his path to the airlock.

Outside, the afternoon was crisp and cool. The skies were clouded and palest grey. Starscream's damaged wings ached, but he was rested enough to fly. Eager to put Megatron out of his mind, he took off and circled upward, casting his sensors outward for traces of Xerissa's seekers. He expected to pick up a heat-seeker at any moment, but no attacks came.

Starscream transformed and alighted on a stone balcony. He leant on the rails and stared at the city lights as afternoon began to darken into evening. The city's heart was quiet and small, but alive. It was a sad place, a city built upon regret and loss, but in its core beat a hope Starscream hadn't seen since he left Cybertron. He had never felt hungry for his home – the fires of war and obsession had kept him from feeling it – but now he felt it as keenly as he did his missing spark. Not just for Vos, but for all of Cybertron.

He cast his optics skyward once more. Three winged shapes crossed the weak, pale sun and cast a fleeting shadow over his face. Starscream tensed as their sensors brushed over him. Still they didn't attack, and then he received a non-verbal hail from Whisper. Terse and guarded, she tentatively invited him to fly.

The femme had rebuilt a piece of Cybertron here. He remembered their dance, and the gathering at the tower. Even the battle, in its pure savagery and aerial brilliance, had been something sacred and ancient. Xerissa wasn't only a ghost, it was the seed of a world reborn. Here, Vos remained alive, in spite of all the odds.

Megatron had been hunting for the secret held here for millennia – creation, new life. New soldiers. This planet, this city, could hold the key to Cybertron's final conquest.

The clouds shifted, and the sun broke through. Starscream felt its warmth upon his face.

The Autobots would gut Xeriss of its resources and absorb it into the empire. But Megatron held the power to do far worse. If the war touched this place, the last vestige of Starscream's home would be destroyed forever. The life the seekers had sparked here – the improbable, impossible creation of new sparks in a barren world – would wither and be snuffed out.

His chest ached and felt somehow emptier than usual. Whisper, Evenfall, and Shadow circled around again, and Whisper's communication nudged at him once more. She held no thirst for revenge for the kin he had killed. He had challenged her and bested her warriors. In the oldest way, he had earned the respect of Xerissa's leader.

He leapt from the balcony, transformed, and rose into the sky after them.  
  
*****  
  
Megatron watched the sky as the sunset gradually turned it red, and then black. The clouds dissipated and the stars shone clearly in the dark sky. Starscream still had not returned.

He felt foolish, now, for going to such trouble to concede to Starscream's demands. Fires burnt in crude braziers around the dusty clearing at the base of the ship's ramp, and a little way before him was a lower fire.

Blitzwing stood behind him to his left, at the base of the ramp. He watched Megatron, not the skies, coolly and silently. Vault had paced before the fire for a joor, and now stood with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed.

“Starscream knew my ultimatum,” Megatron said slowly.

Vault looked into the fire. “He'll be here,” he said. “Sir.”

Megatron waited a few astroseconds, and then clicked his tongue. “Sundown has come and gone. We've already lingered longer than I agreed to,” he said tersely. He jerked his head to indicate they should board the ship. His spark felt constricted and heavy, and gripped by a strange kind of panic. He didn't care to examine the sensation, nor did he show anything but irritation. Ironically, the only mech who could have seen through his façade was Starscream.

Blitzwing was already halfway up the ramp. Vault lingered by the fire, reluctant to follow. Megatron's lip curled. If the Autobot was so fond of Starscream then he could stay here with him. He looked down at the iron in the fire. He'd had a local smith fashion it for him while Starscream had been away, and he felt a fool for doing so now. It had seemed a small concession to make to ensure Starscream's continued co-operation.

The sound of jet engines raised Megatron's optics skyward. Four vapour trails cut the sky, and Megatron slowly stepped back as four seekers descended. Starscream transformed and hit the ground heavily. The three other jets landed behind him. A sleek, silver femme and two heavy builds, Megatron recognised the city's lead trine from their arrival in Xerissa.

Starscream strode forward. He walked with a proud swagger, and his wings fanned up and out, casting a broad shadow. The firelight rippled over Starscream's wings, and Megatron saw fresh marks decorating them. The femme had similar markings, the other two a few glyphs of their own. Incomprehensible hieroglyphs to Megatron's optics, but the significance of their appearance on Starscream's armour hit Megatron hard.

As Starscream passed the brazier, he pulled the branding iron from the flames. Vault straightened eagerly. When Starscream reached the Autobot he gripped him by the back of his neck and forced him to his knees. Moving fluidly, Starscream brought the glowing iron down onto the Autobot's chest. Vault screamed, and his frame arched and trembled. Starscream grasped him by the back of the neck and sank onto one knee to better hold him still. He kept the iron on Vault's armour for several astroseconds before finally lifting it away. The scent of burnt metal filled the air. Starscream flung the iron aside.

The fresh brand burned red on Vault's smoking, black chest-plates. Starscream stood and his optics locked with the seeker femme's. Something significant passed between them, and then Starscream nodded. Seemingly satisfied, Whisper and her guards departed into the night.

Starscream pulled Vault to his feet. The black mech shivered and clung to Starscream like a protoform to its model.

Starscream passed Megatron, and their optics met. Megatron's expression was hard, reproachful, questioning. Starscream lifted his head disdainfully, and then he was past him, leading Vault up the ramp onto the _Lady Luck_. Words unsaid crackled between them, but Megatron swallowed his anger. He clenched his fists, gave a rough growl, and mastered himself.

“We take off at once,” he announced, though all were already aboard. As an afterthought, he picked up the still-hot iron and stowed it in his subspace before ascending the ramp himself. Blitzwing sealed the hatch, and Megatron gave him a nod to get them underway. In a few kliks' time he joined him on the bridge. By then the triple-changer had guided the ship into the air, and they broke through the atmosphere without incident. Megatron slumped into the captain's chair and cradled his head in his hand. Neither Starscream nor his pet reappeared. Blitzwing remained tactfully silent, and entered a course leading them away from Xeriss Alpha. Megatron was glad to leave the place behind.  
  
*****  
  
Vault was still shaking when they reached the captain's cabin. Starscream supported him until they were inside, the door locked, and he had lowered Vault onto the rumpled berth. He stood back and admired his work. The mark was fresh and still hot. Starscream shushed the trembling mech and eased him back into the centre of the berth. His branding seemed to be taking a hard toll on him, and Starscream recalled his own. He remembered how he had shamed himself by passing out, but then, he had taken two marks instead of just the one, and to his sensitive wings.

Vault reached out for Starscream, and the seeker crawled onto the berth after him. Vault's mark was in the most common place, the centre of his chest-plates – right above the spark. Starscream kissed Vault and rubbed his hands up and down his sides until the he relaxed and responded. Vault gripped Starscream with a firmness Starscream found startling. He looked into his optics and found something there that he hadn't seen before.

Starscream's wings hiked up higher, and he slid his hands to Vault's wrists. He pinned Vault to the berth, his grip gentle but firm and unmistakeable. He pressed his way in between Vault's thighs, and Vault let him.

“Repeat after me,” Starscream murmured, his lips brushing Vault's. “I pledge my unquestioning loyalty to the Decepticon cause...” His face was lit with a soft smirk. Vault dutifully repeated, a similar look on his face-plates. “I will devote my spark to achieving our goal of a Decepticon-controlled Cybertron, by any means necessary,” Starscream continued. He paused as he dredged the oath from the depths of his memory core. “And annihilate all who have driven us from our rightful home world. Surrender is not an option.” Vault repeated verbatim in soft, deep tones. At  
the last, his smirk broadened. Starscream nipped his lips. He placed his hand on Vault's new brand. Vault took the pain and accepted it – he was a warrior, and he understood the meaning of the mark and the necessity of its pain. He had undergone this once before, Starscream knew – but his first brand had been made by Megatron. “Welcome, Decepticon,” he purred. “Rise up and serve your _new_ master.”

Vault snickered. “If you insist,” he said.

Starscream heard Vault's panel click and retract. He laughed too, and reached down between them and gave Vault's spike a squeeze. “All hail-” Starscream said, and then halted himself.

Vault filled in the blank. “Hail Starscream,” he said.

Sworn, branded and bound, Vault was his. Starscream slipped his hand around Vault's hip and under his aft. Vault's intakes hitched, but his hips lifted. Starscream looked into the bright, intense blue of Vault's optics. Further memories of his own branding surfaced, including the admiration and loyalty that had surged and blossomed when Megatron had recognised him and chosen him as one of his own. Vault was nothing like Starscream had been then, of course – a seasoned mercenary was not an impressionable rookie scout – but even so, he thought he knew something of what Vault was feeling.

He kissed him again, fiercely now. Vault responded in kind, and clutched at Starscream's frame. His grip wasn't submissive or passive – he was still the same mech, after all. But recent events had rocked both of them. Starscream bit Vault's throat possessively.

“Easy, Starscream,” Vault gasped. Starscream relented with a sullen growl. He nudged Vault's legs further apart and rubbed his spike against Vault's valve. He held onto Vault's wrists and slid his knees wider apart, keeping his lover open. He felt Vault shiver, though no longer from pain. Starscream suckled Vault's throat. Vault grunted and struggled restlessly under Starscream's grip. “Get on with it-”

Starscream growled playfully. “Watch your mouth, soldier.” Even so, he did as Vault asked him. He lined the tip of his spike up, and then pushed inside. Vault gasped and tipped his head back. After the first shock of penetration, he opened up to Starscream completely. His valve was very tight, but slick – Starscream eased inside all of the way. Vault pressed his optics closed and Starscream caught a whispered “yes sir”.

Starscream curled over Vault's frame. He held him down and fucked him while Vault writhed and panted. Gradually Starscream moved faster, thrust more sharply, until he was grunting with each in-stroke and Vault shone all over with condensation. His sharp face was flushed, and his frame responsive and hot. He growled and kissed Starscream hard. Starscream let go of his wrists and slid his hands under Vault's back instead, keeping his body crushed close to his own. Vault wrapped his arms tightly around Starscream's neck.

Vault overloaded first, and Starscream trembled as the black mech's valve gripped his spike hard and pulsed around it. Starscream pressed as close to Vault as he could, and the tips of his claws nicked his back. He ground in, deep and desperate, until he came and spilled a flood of transfluid inside him.

Afterwards, Starscream kissed Vault messily and ran his hands all over his searing hot frame. They were both purring, and they lay together, sprawled, entwined, and still connected, until they tumbled into sleep.


	4. The Gladiator

The feeds were going crazy. Lockdown scrolled down the listings on the main view screen in his workshop. There were a lot of duplicated hits – numerous bounties on the same marks. He scrolled back up to the top and shook his head. The highest sums were being offered by the Autobot High Command.

He sat back in his creaking chair and passed his hand over his optics. He was living in strange times, all right.

He heaved a deep, slow intake, and then rose to his feet. He left the dark workshop and left the screen glowing. The _Death's Head_ hummed quietly. He had put it into power-down mode in a lazy orbit of a favourite haunt of his, a little place called Andala. Busily populated, the planet nevertheless was something of a haven for lawless mechs such as himself, and as such he was able to drift in without worrying about being tracked.

As he walked through the ship he stopped off in the galley and collected a couple of cubes of mid-grade energon. Stocks were getting low, he noticed. He would need to run a job soon.

He moved toward the crew quarters. A short distance away from his own rooms, he stopped. The door was locked. He rapped on it with the curve of his hook. Silence was his only answer, but a beat later the door clicked and unlocked. Lockdown moved inside.

The room was dark, but a window on the far wall was uncovered. It was on the side of the ship facing away from the planet, and the bright stars coasted past serenely.

Prowl was curled on the window ledge. His legs were drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. His forehead rested against the glass.

Lockdown moved into the room and put the cubes down on a low, dark table. He straightened and watched his charge, his crew-mate, in conflicted silence.

He had found Prowl in the floating graveyard. He had been a broken shell, his optics and chest both dark and dead. He had brought him back to the _Death's Head_ on a curious whim, and spent months fixing his broken frame. Driven by some strange compulsion, he had lovingly crafted replacement weapons and armour for the little bike, as all the while Prowl's lifeless body sat in the corner of the workshop, propped against the wall.

After a few kliks, Prowl's head turned. The starlight glinted on his cracked visor. Lockdown had done his best, but the hairline crack was still there. Prowl didn't complain of impaired vision, but Lockdown could tell it affected him. He wondered why Prowl didn't take the damn thing off.

Months after bringing Prowl's frame on board, the ship's intruder alarm had sounded. Lockdown had primed his weapons and gone on a hunt through his own home, and had found, cowered in the corner of the workshop, a confused, frightened, and fragging vicious ninjabot.

He'd lost a few teeth and put his backstrut out of alignment in the struggle that followed. He'd managed to get Prowl subdued by binding him with the self-tightening tape he used for his hunts. Only then had the Autobot been still enough to talk to, and then only because he knew from memory that trying to free himself would lead to damage.

Lockdown hadn't done a very good job of explaining. Prowl had no memories from any time since the conflict on Earth. Lockdown hadn't been there, and only knew what happened from news reports and gossip. He had tried hurriedly to give Prowl the gist. Prowl hadn't believed him. In fact, the Autobot had been barely lucid. He'd growled like a feral cybercat and bared his teeth whenever Lockdown so much as came near, and spoke even more seldom than he had when he'd been alive. Lockdown had been torn between killing him and caring for him.

In time, Prowl had at least agreed to stop trying to kill him. It had taken several days of Prowl tied up in the corner, fed his oil carefully, his hands and legs securely tied. Lockdown hadn't attached any of the weapons he'd made for him, but had carelessly left them in plain sight on the work bench in the centre of the room. Every time Lockdown was in the room with him, Prowl's optics glowed with icy rage. Lockdown was glad the ninjabot had lacked the mental serenity required for processor-over-matter. It was probably the only thing that kept him safe in those early days.

It was now some months since their first rocky start. Prowl was still reticent and uncommunicative, but at least he wasn't still trying to bite Lockdown's hand off whenever he offered him his fuel. Most days he brooded in silence in his room. Lockdown brought him his energon or oil, sometimes they would exchange some stilted words. Lockdown asked Prowl what he remembered. Prowl never wanted to talk about it.

Tonight looked to turn out just the same. Except tonight, tired of sharing a ship with a silent, resentful presence, Lockdown sat down, determined to have an honest to Primus conversation. Prowl watched him in dull silence.

Lockdown helped himself to one of the cubes. They were his own stock, anyway. Prowl had been on board and awake for months and not done a single thing to help in the running of the ship. He probably considered himself a prisoner, and in truth Lockdown wasn't sure how easily he would part with him, but that had never been the old mech's intention. He had, of course, never thought of it that way – before, Prowl had been a shell only, and he had stolen and repaired him as though he were another trophy. Once Prowl awoke, the hunter had been too concerned with protecting himself from a rogue un-dead ninjabot to be concerned with whether Prowl stayed or left.

He took a sip of his fuel. Prowl watched him for a while, and eventually turned back to the window to watch the stars.

Lockdown lowered his optics and reclined further back into his seat. He drank his fuel tiredly and mused on the recent activity on the network.

When he glanced up again, Prowl had moved from the window ledge to the seat beside him. He moved as silently as ever, quiet and unseen as a shadow. Now his cold blue optics were once again focused on Lockdown. The hunter nudged the other cube toward Prowl. Prowl hesitated, and then took it. He sipped it slowly, considered the taste, and swallowed.

Lockdown sighed and looked back at his own drink.

After what seemed like an age, Lockdown finally said, “We're parked at a planet called Andala. Figure I might head on down for some supplies.” Sometimes he found himself doing this – talking for no reason other than to fill up the silence. Half the time, he didn't know if Prowl listened, or if he even heard. He continued stubbornly, “Place is known for its slave markets, but that ain't all there is. I should be able to meet up with some old contacts if I put my audio to the ground.” He took another sip. He was getting near the bottom of the cube. “There's somethin' happenin' on the grid...”

Another silence settled over them. Lockdown finished his cube, and was about to go when suddenly Prowl chose to speak.

“Are we far from Earth?”

Lockdown paused and did the guessing in his head. “Earth? Pretty far. We're right on the outer rim out here,” he said. He dared a sidelong look at the small ninja. Prowl was staring into his cube, swirling the glowing liquid slowly. “You wanna find your friends,” he said.

Prowl looked up at him and stiffened in alarm. Lockdown didn't know what the problem was.

“Optimus-”

“The Prime, yeah, yeah.” Lockdown sighed. “Look, I don't know what happened to any of them. I didn't stick around Earth long enough, and I only stop by Cybertron once every couple hundred stellar cycles. I can't tell you much, but I can tell you what I _do_ know, if it'll stop yer spark-ache and brooding.” Prowl's mouth tightened, but Lockdown ploughed on. “The 'Cons lost the war that day. Whatever you did – yeah, I heard the news like everybot else, saw the victory parades – put the final nail in ol' Megatron's coffin. Since then things have carried on much the same, 'cept the Autobots entered some alliance with the flesh-bags. Now Autobot space is even bigger, and those little organics are poppin' up everywhere too.”

“The humans are colonising beyond their home-world?” Prowl asked.

Lockdown nodded with a grimace. “Don't even get me started. Anyways... Your friend the Prime's still alive and tickin'. He's Elite Guard now, probably Magnus or somethin' by now, I don't know. Haven't been back to Cybertron in a while.” He wished he had a cygar or something. The intense way Prowl was looking at him made him uneasy. “Maybe _he_ can tell you what happened to the others,” he finished, uncomfortable.

He stood up, taking his empty cube and leaving Prowl his. Prowl didn't say anything more to him, but before Lockdown left he looked back. Prowl had returned to the window and was staring out. The door closed behind him.  
  
*****  
  
Andala was split into three main continents. One was wilderness, one was given over to heavy mining and energon harvesting, while the third, and also the largest, was a densely populated conurbation, and home to the largest and most famous slave markets this side of the 'verse. In addition to the slaves, however, there were functioning, thriving cities, with all the amusements and amenities a hunter could want.

Lockdown hit a bar to start off his little jaunt, a dive he was well familiar with and which had been one of his numerous watering holes for many a stellar cycle. He left Prowl on the ship, locked in his room. He'd locked the door from the outside, this time. The last thing he needed was the ninjabot running off with his ship, off to find his Prime. Prowl could go wherever he wanted, but he couldn't take the _Death's Head_ with him.

The Rusty Pipe was located beneath one of the city's smaller fighting pits, in what had once been repair and resting quarters for the gladiators. The pit was still active, but this section of the basement had long ago been sectioned off and converted. It was a dark, smoky, miserable place, and Lockdown had often wondered if the anguish and pain of the ancient fighters that had once occupied the space still echoed in the dismal, unpleasant atmosphere. Still, Lockdown liked the place. It was an unacknowledged, though widely known, meeting point for local mercenaries and bounty hunters, and Lockdown had been paying too little attention to the grid these past months to be truly abreast of whatever was going down. He entered, ordered a high-grade, and hunched on one of the stools by the bar. The barkeep was a spindly mech that looked more like an ancient worker drone than an actual mech, but his processor had been upgraded enough, and presumably a spark beat in his chest. His optics were flat and dead, his voice a robotic monotone.

Lockdown sat, drank, and smoked, for much of the evening. Small talk with small-timers was brief and quickly curtailed. He kept his optics open for somebot who could be of use.

In the small hours he called it a night. He hadn't expected much luck to begin with. He would return to the ship and try the frequencies of some of the contacts he knew tended to hang around Andala and its system, and see if any of them were available to share some intelligence He'd check the network again, even though he knew was futile. Megatron wouldn't be so easily located, nor so easily caught. He wasn't even completely sure he was up to the task of taking the ancient warlord down himself, if he really stopped to dwell on it.

Starscream, however, he knew he could handle.

And that thought led him inevitably, once again, right back to Prowl.

He trudged to where he had parked the ship. It was in the middle of a busy port area, and he'd had to fight and jostle just for a place to land. The sky above was a dark and steely grey.

He boarded, and sealed up the hatch behind him. Immediately he felt his hackles rise. Something was wrong. He stretched his sensors out, reaching for something familiar. His hand flexed and itched, ready to transform.

He found Prowl in his workshop. He was seated cross-legged on the central bench, and just finishing attaching the energy blade Lockdown had crafted for him while he “slept”.

“Did you find these in my tomb as well?” Prowl said.

Lockdown stood for a while in the doorway, watching the ninja in silence. He had locked Prowl's room from the outside, supposedly confining him until the hunter's return. Prowl had got out anyway. At least he hadn't stolen the _Death's Head_ and run off back to Cybertron. That would cause quite the stir, he thought – the celebrated war martyr, returned to life.

“No,” Lockdown said at last. He didn't waste time asking how Prowl had escaped. He avoided the topic altogether, and crossed the room and began to sort some of his tools. He put his back to Prowl, though his sensors were on alert. Prowl had spoken voluntarily, and was doing something more than fighting, staring, or brooding. He didn't want to put him off now. “...I made 'em specially,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder. Prowl had the blade out and was inspecting its angles, brightness, and edge.

“...Why?”

Lockdown moved his tools around methodically. He didn't answer right away. He felt Prowl's optics on his back for a long time.

“...Figured you could use 'em.”

There was another silence, and Lockdown turned back. Prowl still sat on the cot, cross-legged, his hands on his knees. His visor glowed evenly. The blade had been put away.

“Am I a prisoner here?”

Lockdown rubbed the back of his helm. “Want me to drop you down in the city?” he asked. “I wouldn't risk it. Pretty thing like you on a slaving planet?”

Prowl turned his head away in distaste. Lockdown turned back to his tools. They didn't speak again.  
  
*****  
  
The next cycle Lockdown didn't see Prowl until he was about to leave for the Rusty Pipe. The lithe ninjabot materialised by the airlock, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. His energy field prickled with tension and defensive hostility, though his expression was blank and his manner cool. Lockdown raised a brow at him.

“Fancy a drive?” he said. “You wouldn't like the company.”

“Perhaps I want to see what kind of planet I find myself on,” Prowl replied smartly.

Lockdown shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He opened the hatch and lowered the ramp, transformed, and drove out. Prowl transformed after a moment's hesitation, and then fell into convoy. Lockdown had made some modifications to the armour, which meant Prowl's altmode no longer needed the side-car to account for its bulk. Instead, he was simply a larger, heavier bike than the light sport model he had been before. He thought Prowl might appreciate the improved handling.

He took the most direct route to the bar he knew, but still he found himself stopping half way, when he realised Prowl's signal was no longer right behind him. He transformed and turned. Prowl was standing several mechanometres away, gazing up at the clustered buildings around him. Above them, the pink-tinged, star-studded sky was beautiful and improbable, and so different from Earth's or Cybertron's. He walked slowly toward Prowl. Around them, mechs and organics alike pressed and bustled. It was down-shift, the planet's night cycle, but Andala never slept.

“Where is this?” Prowl asked when Lockdown got close to him.

“Andala,” Lockdown said. “Old haunt o' mine. ...Stay close.”

Prowl looked at him and bristled.

“Trust me, kid, it's for your own good,” Lockdown said with a sigh.

“I'll decide that,” Prowl said. He looked past Lockdown. “Where are you going?”

Lockdown shrugged. “Bar.” He saw the curl of Prowl's lip. “Come or stay. The _Death's Head_ 'll stay where I parked it at least another seven solars. After that, I'm movin' on.”

“You're allowing me to go free?” Prowl asked guardedly.

“For frag's sake, kid,” Lockdown growled. “I got better things to do than babysit a fraggin' zombie. Either get lost, or stay and make yourself slaggin' useful.” He turned away, and trudged the rest of the way to the bar on foot. Prowl didn't follow.  
  
*****  
  
That night he was able to meet with one of his oldest contacts, by a rare stroke of luck. Scrounger was a rangy, tall mech with two too many limbs and old battle damage that all but obliterated half his face. He had never bothered to fix it. He said his job didn't depend upon his looks, and perhaps he liked putting the fear of Unicron into his marks. His plating was dull, unpainted grey, marked with scratches and burns and scrapes. His four arms usually had strong, spindly hands attached, but he had a variety of different and fiendish tools that he switched them for depending on what he was up to. Today he had four hands. He had a drink in two of them.

He hopped onto the stool beside Lockdown and fixed his fellow hunter with a nightmarish, skeleton grin.

“Long time no see, Lockdown,” he said. “Got a smoke?”

Lockdown pulled two cygars from his subspace and passed one to Scrounger. “Nice to see you too,” Lockdown said. He hunched lazily over the counter, sparing Scrounger only a quick sideways look. The oddly built mech wasn't really the sort of bot you wanted to take a long look at, after all.

The pair of them sat, smoked, and drank in companionable silence for several kliks. Lockdown idly wondered where Prowl had got to. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care.

“So,” Scrounger said at length. “What brings you to this corner of the galaxy? Thought you usually hung around the Sigma Quadrant these days.”

“Pickin's got slim,” Lockdown lied. In truth, he had left Sigma when he started tracking Prowl's mausoleum. It had been a whim, and he had never intended his little side-trip to last for months. “How's business 'round here?”

“Slim,” Scrounger said, and gave Lockdown a peculiar look. “Not that I don't love to see an old friend,” he said, “but a lot o' hunters have been passin' through these parts lately. Bein' competitive sorts, you can imagine things got a little... unfriendly.”

Lockdown understood Scrounger's hinted meaning. The strange old bot was happy to meet for a drink and swap intel, but Lockdown was expected to keep moving on. There were only so many marks, and too many hunters to chase them. Swiping another mech's prey tended to breed resentment, and the last thing he wanted was another hunter on his tail.

“I got ya,” he said quietly. He stubbed out his cygar and sipped his drink. “I wanted to ask somebot about something I saw on the feed,” he went on. He saw there was no point wasting time on small talk.

“Oh yeah?” Scrounger made an effort to look unconcerned and ignorant, but Lockdown saw the steely glint in his eye.

“Yeah.” Another sip. The high-grade seared his throat as it slipped down. “The Autobot High Command have started issuing big bounties again. Usually their marks are small-time, and they keep the bigger game for their own Guard to track down. But I saw somethin'... unexpected.”

Scrounger was looking at him steadily now, his gaze hardened.

Lockdown plunged on. “Decepticons are poppin' up on the feed again. Specifically two. Megatron and Starscream.”

“Ah, so that's your point,” Scrounger said. “Megatron broke out of his prison a while ago. Somehow the Guard haven't caught him yet, and I guess they're gettin' desperate, since they need hunters after him too. Starscream? He's a little more interesting... I heard he was in the same jail as the ol' warmonger. I heard they escaped together.”

Lockdown snorted. “Starscream I can handle. I caught him once before. Only thing that bothers me is he's _dead_.”

“That _is_ curious.”

“Slaggin' right. Now, why the frag are the High Command puttin' out bounties on dead mechs?” Lockdown said, in a feigned puzzled tone. “Unless that dead mech miraculously came back.”

And that was the crux of it, he thought. At just around the same time he had become the unexpected and unlikely guardian of an un-dead ninjabot, across the galaxy a long-dead Decepticon had also started ticking again.

“That is a strange conundrum,” Scrounger said, and took a long drag on his cygar. “Dead mechs coming back to life... Tsk. Bad omen, some might say.” He stared paused, and then said, “I heard some rumours of a slaver seeing him around Naresus IV, the space port there. But that was before the Autobots closed in. The trail is cold by now, my friend.”

“The trail is never cold,” Lockdown said. “Not for a hunter with a good enough nose.”

“Well, I don't know what else to tell you,” said Scrounger with a four-armed shrug.

Lockdown slammed his drink down on the counter. “You better tell me somethin' I can use,” he growled.

Scrounger's manner became cold. Lockdown remembered there was only so far you could needle a mech like that before they snapped. Still, he didn't back down or show throat. He was one of the oldest in the business, and most mechs were afraid of _him_. He reacted to Scrounger's mood shift by watching the other mech with coldly challenging optics. Scrounger backed down first.

“...There are a few local hunts going, mech,” Scrounger said. “If you need the creds.”

“...Maybe I do,” Lockdown said. It was better than nothing, and he hadn't had a proper hunt since he found Prowl. His cred count was getting close to the red, especially since he now had two mouths to feed instead of just one. Keeping a passenger, as opposed to a partner who pulled his weight, was expensive.

Scrounger gave him the sketched-in details of a bounty that had only just hit the feed. A common enough job, in that the mark was an escaped Decepticon. Lockdown had had plenty of practice catching those. There had been a time when he'd been hesitant to hunt down 'Cons on the Autobots' command – Decepticons had always been his best customers, after all – but that was before the Guard put prices on the heads of _all_ known Decepticons. Once content to leave the 'Cons to their exile as agreed long ago, for a time following Megatron's defeat the Council instead campaigned to hunt down all Decepticon-kind, even venturing into the vestiges of the “Empire” to eradicate the threat. Lockdown had made a pretty pile of credits tracking down his informants and friends. It had been a desperate time, and he had sensed the need to buy his own safety by bringing the Guard their fugitives lest a price be put on his own helm as well. A neutral was as good as a Decepticon, in the Autobots' optics. It had only been luck that let Swindle get away. Lockdown remembered that incident with no little bitterness, and he was sure Swindle's grudge would never fade.

Once he left the bar, Lockdown did some cursory research on the mark using his hand-held. Former 'Con alright, it looked like she had spent some time in Trypticon for her crimes. The bounty wasn't being offered by the Guard, however. He frowned at the small print, and then shrugged it off. A job was a job, after all.

He checked the sky. It was deep into the night cycle now. He hadn't realised how long he had spent reminiscing with Scrounger. He didn't even particularly like that strange mech.

He resolved to return to the ship and begin his hunt on the next day. He yawned, and drove back to where he had parked the _Death's Head_.

The ship was where he left it, but Prowl had not returned.  
  
*****  
  
Andala was an overwhelming place. Prowl wandered hither and thither and tried to take in the sights. He had never been in such a place - his early youth was spent, or misspent, on Cybertron, in the slums and neighbourhoods of the inner-city Iacon in those days. After the time spent cloistered with Yoketron, he had spent a million years in solitude and meditation, and then had come Optimus Prime, and Earth. Andala's humming, throbbing brand of relentless life was something he had never experienced.

It was the down-shift, or at least the dark sky told him it was. The city was alight and abuzz, and so loud. He used his gifts to fade into the background of the busy streets he crept and wandered down. He veered away from the edges of the slave markets, and pretty soon he had lost track of where he had left the _Death's Head_. He couldn't decide if that worried him or not. Maybe he wouldn't be able to find his way back to Lockdown, but he wondered if being stranded on an alien planet was really any worse than being trapped with that maniac.

He almost bought a can of oil from a street vendor, before realising he didn't have any credits. He had tried to access his accounts some months ago, when the worst of the fear and rage that accompanied his “resurrection” had passed and his head began to clear. The only account he had been able to access had been frozen long ago. He was a dead mech, and his creds were no good to dead mechs. He had been living entirely dependent upon Lockdown for months. The thought made him feel sick.

He wandered aimlessly. It seemed the planet, or at least the city, had a high population of organic sentient life. He was shocked and surprised when he first saw humans.

Fascinated, he blended with a crowd of alien bots and followed them. Within the klik he found himself swept forward in a bigger crowd, drifting inexorably toward a large, ornate building. The wall curved, and its elegant decorative protrusions were floodlit from below. From within, he heard the swell of cheering. He frowned and tailed the group of humans and tried to get close.

By the time he was clear of the press around him, he was inside the circular building and able to get a clear view of the place. Built like an amphitheatre, it was open to the air above, and rows of seats rose in tiers around a central pit. It was with a sick sinking in his fuel tank that he realised he had stumbled into an arena.

His exit was blocked by the largely organic crowd. Prowl picked an unobtrusive spot and blended into the shadows, using his repaired holo-projector to help him avoid anybody's gaze.

The crowd suddenly exploded into another round of cheers. It seemed Prowl had arrived just as the show began. The first combatant entered the ring. Prowl leaned forward and wished he were taller so he could see better. The first fighter was an organic creature, a huge and ugly brute with too many teeth.

The second fighter was a Cybertronian. Prowl gasped softly as the combatant emerged. A Cybertronian femme. She was unarmed, and while her frame was stocky and compact, she was half the height of the organic monster. Her teal and purple paint job cried “Decepticon”. His whole frame tensed as the crowed roared.

The fight began. Prowl started to slip through the crowd toward the front. The organic attacked first. It was a bipedal, reptilian creature with huge claws and a snarling maw. In any other situation, Prowl would have been fascinated by the the specimen, but on this occasion only saw the threat. The femme dodged the first swipe of its claws and rolled back toward the edge of the pit. Prowl glanced around urgently. There was no bot to help her.

The creature struck again, this time spitting something foul at the femme that blistered her paint. She swore and snarled. Provoked into attacking, she gave a shout and launched herself at her opponent. She got a few good kicks in before it threw her again. She got up, ready to fight again.

Prowl couldn't stand and watch this archaic, barbaric practice any longer. He snarled under his breath, and put one foot up on the barrier separating the crowd from the pit, about to leap in and save her, or at least try. Before he could, there was a piercing cry and the crowd erupted once more. He glanced around in alarm. The organic creature was on the ground, and the femme stood over it with vile black blood coating her arm. She was venting hard, but a raw, brutal smile gave her face a dangerous light.

She did a kind of victory lap around the pit, arms raised and red optics blazing.

Prowl shrank back as she approached his area. Her gaze slid over him and moved on.

The next fighter was brought out. Another Cybertronian this time. He loped out at the same time as a team of humans and minibots dragged the fallen monster from the pit.

This mech was massive, a wall of metal and spiked finials, definitely ex-'Con or mercenary. Whatever he was, he fought with practised ease and a brutal kind of grace. He dispatched the femme quickly, and Prowl looked away as the energon flowed.

As Prowl stepped back, he bumped into a mech standing behind him. He turned, and startled. Lockdown, wrapped in his poncho and towering over most of the organic crowd, looked down at him.

“You followed me here!” Prowl spat, glaring.

“Didn't want you selling yourself into slavery or anythin' like that,” Lockdown said with a shrug. “Besides, the ship was real quiet without you.”

Prowl knew that was a lie – his presence aboard the _Death's Head_ was silent at best. Lockdown simply didn't want him to get away.

“Can't a mech enjoy a little entertainment of an evenin' without havin' an ulterior motive?” Lockdown continued. He nodded toward the ring. “Did you know not every bot that fights here is a slave?”

Prowl looked back. The announcer was calling out for challengers.

“It's a mark of honour to do well here. To be the strongest. Some bots choose this. The prize money ain't bad either.”

“Money,” Prowl scoffed. Then he remembered that he was still living off Lockdown's funds. He stiffened and fell silent.

Lockdown gave a grim laugh. “Yeah,” he said. He placed his hand between Prowl's boosters and pushed.

Prowl fell over the barrier and onto the sandy floor of the pit. He rolled and crouched, and looked back up at the hunter in rage.

Lockdown raised his hook high, and then pointed it at Prowl. “I got your challenger right here,” he cried. He looked down at Prowl and winked. “Give it your best shot, kid. I'm countin' on you.”

It was too late to run. Prowl rose slowly to his feet. The crowd was chanting, jeering, whistling. He looked up at the champion, and almost accepted his fate of one more early death.

The mech was more than three times his size. Energon coated his hands and spattered his chassis. His optics were deep, malignant red.

Prowl heard a horn, and the fight began. He dodged the brute's first rush and danced away, keeping as far from the mech as he could. His frame felt out of practice and achy, but his technique returned to him swiftly. He was light on his feet, and watched his opponent with keen optics to gauge his next attack.

He continued to evade for a while, dodging and jumping, rolling, always staying just out of reach of the big mech's massive claws. Out of the corner of his optic he saw Lockdown, surrounded by a huddle of mechs and men, taking bets. Dark rage coiled in Prowl's chest, where his spark should be. Suddenly he knew – he would kill this mech, and then he would kill Lockdown too.

He pulled a couple of throwing stars from his wheels and, when the big mech charged again, he let them fly. He wasn't going to be killed in some seedy fighting pit for the sole sake of earning Lockdown some creds. He bared his teeth and extended the energy blade Lockdown had built.

The fight was a long one, but the only damage he took was a scratch to his midsection. He wore the big mech down with cuts and slices of his blade and throwing stars to the head, gradually making him both weaker and angrier. He tuned out the noise of the crowd, even the knowledge of the hunter's part in this. He concentrated only on this opponent, and on bringing him down, until his processor reached a single-minded kind of serenity and focus.

His opportunity finally came when he got behind the 'Con and sliced his blade across the backs of his legs. The mech fell to his knees, roaring in pain and anger, spitting insults in some long-forgotten Decepticon dialect. Prowl darted forward, not wasting an astrosecond. He jumped, ran up the big mech's back, and plunged his blade point down into the back of his neck. He kicked off and used his weight to force the blade down further still, and he slid, slicing the mech's thick plating open all the way down his back strut. Energon rushed from the wound and internal mechanisms showed through the split protoform. Prowl kicked again and pulled the blade free. While the mech was shuddering and screaming, he darted around him, avoiding his flailing arms, and stabbed through his chest plates into his spark.

Prowl wrenched the blade free and rolled backward. His sensornet crackled with excess energy – the feedback from the spark he'd extinguished had travelled through the blade into his arm, and now little tongues of blue light licked his plating here and there. He was venting hard, his fans overworked. He hadn't fought, hadn't _moved_ like that since before his death, and even before then. His armour was coated in energon. He fell to his knees. The energy blade lost its charge and returned, unlit, to its sheath.

There was a ringing in Prowl's audios, and it was only after several kliks, as he came back to himself, that he realised it was the crowd cheering. He glanced around dazedly. There was Lockdown, smug as a lord. There was something else in his expression, too. Prowl wasn't in a fit state to decode it. He thought it looked like pride.  
  
*****  
  
There were no further challengers that night. Prowl left the ring with shaky steps, and Lockdown collected him at the edge with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Prowl stared at him flatly for several kliks. Then he reactivated his blade.

Security bots fell on him before he could cut the smug grin from the hunter's face. Three big mechs held him, and the stasis cuffs pinned his wrists behind his back before he could even struggle. He seethed as the mechs talked, and after a brief exchange he was handed to Lockdown. He caught words he didn't like – somebot wanted to buy him.

“No way,” he heard Lockdown say. “This one ain't for sale.”

Lockdown slung him over his shoulder and left the arena. He walked through the city, humming as he went.

After some time, in which Prowl remained in stoic, hateful silence, Lockdown chose to speak.

“I knew you had somethin' like that in you,” he said. His tone was light and easy, conversational. Prowl did not reply. “I know you're mad,” Lockdown continued. “But I knew you'd come out o' that alive. And we made some creds to boot.”

“I'm so glad I earned you some money,” Prowl burst out caustically. “Take the stasis cuffs off.”

“So you can behead me?”

“I was going to go for the spark, actually.”

Lockdown laughed. “An' you're still a vicious little thing. You did great in there.”

“I'm not-... I'm not a killer...”

“You are now.”

Prowl closed his optics in pain. He had always known he had a dangerous violence inside him. He had tried so hard, especially toward the end of his life, to calm it, to hide it, to be better and do better. He had died a _hero_. And now he had returned, and his sacrifice was dirtied by the monstrous act Lockdown had forced him to commit. Would his master be ashamed if he could see him now?

The rest of the journey back passed in silence. Once on board the ship, Lockdown carried Prowl back to his room and dropped him into the chair by the window.

“I wanna take your cuffs off now,” Lockdown said. “But you gotta promise not to kill me.”

Prowl glared at him and made no such promises. Lockdown sighed.

“All right, you can stay in 'em for the night. I don't care.”

He moved over to the low table and dropped a large handful of uniform silver crystals. “Here's your winnings. The bet money I'm keepin' for fuel, since you're drinkin' all my stock.” He stomped to the door, leaving Prowl bound on the chair, immobile and incensed. “I'll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.” He locked the door after he left.


	5. Memory

Once the _Lady Luck_ was clear of Xerissa, the solar cycles passed quietly. Travel without transwarp was slow, and Starscream was on edge. He spent a lot of time pacing the command deck checking for approaching Autobot craft. 

Starscream and Megatron settled back into a routine of mutual avoidance. The old mech stewed in the berth-room and adjoining office, while Starscream spent as much time as he could on the bridge, or with Vault in the crew quarters. Blitzwing would often be in attendance, since the two bots recharged in the same space. Starscream had seen a strange sort of friendship bud between those two ever since leaving the prison. Initially there had been an unspoken tension between the former prisoner and prison guard, but it seemed neither of them were inclined to hold on to a grudge now that their ranks were equal. Starscream had taken to spending the quiet evenings joining the pair in their games of cards or dice, gambling for energon goodies or small credit-chips. 

The only times Starscream really saw Megatron were on the rare chance occasions when the four of them would gather in the galley to raid Swindle's fuel store. Swindle may have been a cog-sucking piece of slag, but he had a first-rate energon cellar. It was on one such night that Starscream entered the galley to find Megatron sitting at the end of one of the long tables, staring into a cup of dark oil. Blitzwing and Vault lounged and chatted at the end of the room by the storage, cubes in hand. The lighting was low, casting the corners of the large chamber in moody shadows. 

Starscream entered without a word and made his way toward the energon store. Vault broke off his conversation and seemed to perk up when he noticed him. “Boss-bot,” he said with a lazy, open smile. Starscream cast a brief glance over at Megatron, but the old bot didn't so much as look up from his drink. Vault was addressing Starscream. 

“Commanders,” Starscream answered with a light smirk, and a nod at Blitzwing to include him. Blitzwing and Vault, by way of being the only other bots in their illustrious new Decepticon army, had necessarily become Megatron and Starscream's right hand mechs, respectively. Starscream hadn't consulted Megatron on this, but he had already claimed Vault as his own officer. He assumed Megatron would want his own loyal mech as his. “What are we drinking tonight?”

Vault grinned. “Found a crate of Andalan blend, real smooth. Why don't you grab a cube and join us?”

“Don't you presume to give me orders, soldier,” Starscream said playfully, and moved into the storage. Instead of taking a single cube, he picked up the crate and strode back out. 

“Just a suggestion, my lord,” Vault replied smoothly. He followed as Starscream moved to Megatron's table and set the crate down a few seats away from the old mech. 

Megatron finally lifted his head. Blitzwing and Vault brought their cubes and took seats on opposite sides of the table. Starscream took a chair between Megatron and Vault. He had a cube of the Andalan blend in his hand, and he opened it now and knocked back half the contents in one gulp. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Spark, that's strong stuff.”

Blitzwing's dark face split into a grin. “Too much for little old Starscream?” he cackled. “I'll take two!”

Vault slid two cubes over to the triple-changer, and took another for himself. Starscream looked at Megatron. He was tense and hunched, his expression closed and withdrawn. He gripped his cup tightly. “And what about our _other_ illustrious leader?” he said. Megatron's gaze shot up and his optics locked with Starscream's. It was clear he wanted Starscream gone, wanted simply to sit and drink his oil in peace and silence. Well, that was just too bad. Starscream had had enough of his self-pitying, self-imposed isolation. If he wanted to be leader, he would have to stop hiding from the very bots he was supposed to lead. “Care to take a drink with your troops?”

Megatron glanced around the table at them. Starscream saw the indecision in his optics. He didn't want to stay, but if he fled he would lose face. His gaze returned to Starscream, and his optics darkened in resentment. “Very well,” he said.

Starscream gave him the rest of his Andalan blend, and retrieved something lighter for himself. When he returned to the table, Vault asked him, “So, what's the plan from here?”

Starscream reclined in his seat and took a gulp of his fuel. He stretched his wings while deliberating on an answer. Blitzwing watched him coolly. Megatron remained sullenly silent, which gave Starscream time to think. 

“We need to gather our forces,” he eventually said. He looked at Blitzwing. “Where are our officers? You said Lugnut was taken to some mining colony?”

Blitzwing nodded and looked pensive. “I do not know where Lugnut was taken beyond that,” he said. “After he was taken from Akeron I wasn't able to contact him again. Shockwave maintained the network covertly, and may have kept track of the officers' movements.”

Megatron's lip curled in disgust. Starscream shared the sentiment. “A lot of good that will do us now,” he said. “Does anyone know who acted as Shockwave's second in command?” He looked around the table. Blitzwing and Vault shook their heads. Megatron refused to look at him and kept his face stony and blank. 

“We could always try New Kaon,” Blitzwing suggested. 

Vault snorted. “Isn't that place a wasteland?” he said. He had finished his first cube of the Anadalan blend and was moving onto a second. Starscream noticed Megatron take another drink of his.

Blitzwing didn't react to Vault's dismissive tone. “It was a hub that Lord-... that Shockwave communicated with for some time,” he said. Starscream pulled a face. “General Strika was reported to be in command there.”

Megatron finally roused himself enough to speak up. “Strika is a powerful asset,” he said thoughtfully. “More so if she has her unit with her.” He finished his cube, and gestured for another one to be slid down the table to him. 

Starscream had to agree with him. New Kaon had been a Decepticon stronghold when he had been second in command, far enough from the centre of the Commonwealth to survive even in the Decepticons' exile, and Strika was a powerful warrior who had always had loyal troops to back her. Locating her would be a boon for them, and quite the step forward in re-establishing a viable military force.

“More valuable still would be to gain control of Shockwave's network,” Megatron went on. His optics were distant, and his fingertips sketched restless patterns on the tabletop. He didn't say what Starscream already knew – that by the time Vault's cudgel brought an end to Shockwave's regime, Megatron had already lost any real ruling power. Shockwave had not shared intelligence with the mech he had usurped, and whatever contacts and methods Shockwave had maintained, the knowledge had died with him. Starscream wondered if his web had collapsed upon his removal, or if a new, hidden player now pulled those strings. 

“We should get another ship, too,” Vault said. “Or overhaul this one. She's a good slaver, but the 'Bots know it now. It was impounded, registered, traceable.”

Starscream didn't like that idea. Megatron nodded, looking grave. He had probably been yearning for the _Nemesis_ and the speed and unmatched power the Doomsday Class craft had offered. There were no other ships to match her any longer. Still, gunships were not so rare outside of the Commonwealth that they wouldn't be able to buy or capture something suitable.

“We'll have to see what we find along the way,” Starscream said grimly. “If the Guard are on our tails, we won't have time for side-trips. It's going to be a long journey as it is.”

“So it's decided?” Vault asked. He took another gulp of his drink. “We make for New Kaon?”

Starscream looked at Megatron. Megatron's optics were on Vault, though he seemed lost in his own thoughts. He was frowning as he mirrored the black mech's movements with his own cube, swallowing more of the potent fuel. Starscream exchanged a quick look with Blitzwing, his brows raised. Blitzwing gave a tiny shrug. “Megatron,” Starscream snapped. Megatron's attention snapped to him. He seemed startled. “New Kaon. Any objections?” 

Megatron swirled his energon, and his frown deepened. “It seems it has already been decided,” he said. 

Starscream shrugged. “It's as good a plan as any,” he said. “New Kaon it is.”

*****

Later, Starscream lounged in the captain's seat while Vault crouched by the main console, tweaking some faulty wiring beneath it. The silence was companionable, and Starscream was spending the time scrolling through star charts on a datapad.

“According to this thing, it's going to take us megacycles to reach Pyrovar from here,” Starscream complained.

“Mhmm. Some place you want to stop off on the way?” Vault said. He turned to Starscream and grinned. “I know a really nice space port this side of Skaro where you can get-”

“I don't want to stop off at some seedy space port,” Starscream interrupted. He rested his chin on his hand. His leg was slung over the arm of the seat, and his foot bobbed restlessly. “What I need is a medic.”

“Glitching?” Vault rose and dusted himself off.

“Not me,” Starscream said with a shake of his head. “Megatron.”

Vault raised his optic ridges. Diplomatically, he stayed silent. 

“There's something messed up in his processor. I don't know if it was being locked in that place, being defeated, or whatever fragged up slag Shockwave did to him,” Starscream said, gesturing vaguely with the datapad. “But I need him functional if I'm going to win back the army. Not every Decepticon is as trustworthy and loyal as _you_ , after all.”

Vault smirked. “I see your point. May I?” He reached out, and Starscream handed him the datapad. Vault scrolled through a few pages. “Here. There's a planet I know where you might be able to get some help for him. Haven't been there for a couple million stellars, but...” He turned the pad and handed it back to Starscream. “Only trouble is it's in Quintesson territory.”

Starscream frowned. Was Megatron worth a detour into the Quint Sphere?

“I don't know,” he said. “It's not really on the way...”

“It's up to you, of course, my lord.”

Starscream looked at him. “I almost wish you'd stop calling me that.”

“That's not what you said last night,” Vault said playfully. 

“Tsk! Get down here.” Starscream reached up and made a grab for the sleek, strong mech. Vault laughed and leaned down, and Starscream held the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

*****

Their course took them too close to Earth. Located right by the border between Autobot space and the Quintesson Co-Prosperity Sphere in what had once been neutral territory, the small organic planet nestled like a blue and green jewel in a busy sky. The _Lady Luck_ edged just close enough to scan for several Autobot ships in the vicinity, before her captains – Starscream and Megatron both – decided a new approach was required. They retreated and put the ship into the shadowy lee of one of Jupiter's moons. 

“Either we go around,” observed Blitzwing, examining a three-dimensional holographic star chart in the centre of the bridge. “Or we attempt to use one of the space bridges on or around Earth to get us closer to the Decepticon rim.”

“Those gates will be crawling with Autotroopers,” Starscream remarked in disgust. 

“The alternative,” Megatron said rather shortly. “Is to fly around the rim of the galaxy and arrive at New Kaon sometime in the next millennium.”

Starscream considered for all of an astrosecond. “We go around, the other way. I have business in the Sphere,” he said decisively. He didn't answer Megatron's questioning look. “Stellar north of here is Nebulon space. We can refuel at Abrax and continue from there.” He glared at them to silence the complaints he knew were coming. “We won't be able to sneak the ship closer to Earth than this. We need to take a smaller craft.” He stroked his chin, thinking. Before he could say more, the ship's proximity sensors blared, and a second later the ship was rocked by a sudden impact.

“We've been spotted,” Blitzwing's crimson face yelled. “Autotrooper patrol rounding Ganymede now!”

Starscream snarled. “What? Allspark damn it, this whole system is crawling with them.” He sighed and thought quickly. “Okay, here's the plan. Blitzwing, Vault. Take the shuttle and rendezvous on Monacus – it's on our way. Get there however you can.” He turned to Megatron, who growled. “Megatron and I are taking the ship.”

“ _What_?”Megatron demanded, his optics flaring in astonishment and anger.

Vault snapped a salute. “Yessir.” He nodded to Blitzwing, who seemed less eager to obey Starscream's abrupt command. Starscream's wings dipped and he bared his teeth in exasperation. 

“Now!” Starscream snapped as another impact set the ship rocking wildly. He grabbed Megatron's wrist. Megatron was too stunned to swat him away. “There's no time. Vault knows where I'm going. Go, now!”

Vault nodded, glanced once more at Blitzwing, and ran. He paused by the door to give Starscream a backward look, but Starscream waved him away sharply. This was no time for goodbyes. 

Blitzwing went after him only after a grudging nod from Megatron.

Starscream had no time for Megatron's complaints. He flew to the pilot's seat and took the controls at once. Megatron stumbled behind him. Alerts blared, and Starscream snarled at the familiarity – he could be aboard the _Ariel_ again, he thought. Except this time, he had the helm. No Autobots to imprison him, no Driver to pick him apart. This time Starscream chose the destination. 

Beside him, Megatron took a gunner's post. Starscream found himself laughing as they punched their way through the trooper line. Starscream had thought the Guard had finally caught up to them, but it was just a patrol. Megatron's gun, one of the _Lady Luck_ 's three cannons, tore a blazing hole in one of the small trooper ships, and Starscream battered a way through the remaining two, ramming them aside with the ship's superior bulk. He left one in shreds, the other too damaged to even limp back to Earth. Once they were past the Autotroopers' compact, white little patrol ships, space opened up before them. Starscream pushed the ship's engines as hard as they would go, and he was still laughing as they left Earth far behind. 

*****

In the end, Starscream managed to crash the ship after all. The planet Vault had suggested was within sight when the alien ship came upon them and shot out one of the ship's engines. Starscream cursed and tried to land, but with the ship lumbering damaged and unresponsive, their landing was explosive and clumsy. The ship held together, but only barely.

Starscream climbed from the pilot's seat and glanced back into the smoke-filled bridge. There was silence, then a grunt, and Megatron pushed a sheet of torn metal away and emerged from wreckage and debris. 

“Tsk. Not one of my better landings,” Starscream said as he dusted himself off. “I see you're still ticking.”

“I still function, if that's what you mean,” Megatron replied. “This was not your best plan to offline me yet.”

Starscream laughed, a trifle hysterically. Megatron merely sighed. “Who the frag shot us down?” Starscream eventually said. He turned back to the helm and hit the controls. The screens were dark, the computer offline.

Megatron rolled his shoulders. “Presumably the inhabitants of whatever planet you've brought me to,” he said. “Well. Shall we go and see what awaits us?”

Megatron walked out of the bridge, and Starscream sighed and followed him to the airlock. The hatch opened, and they descended the ramp onto a red, desert planet. The sun was high in the sky, and dust immediately got into Starscream's optics and fans. He shielded his optics from the bright sun, until the light was abruptly blotted out. He gasped and looked up. The dark shape in the sky resolved into a huge and monstrous ship – bulbous and organic in shape, it sank down toward them in ponderous revolutions like a great, slow drill. Starscream yelled and primed his guns; fortunately, both he and Megatron had both replaced their arms on the long journey from Akeron. Megatron drew his blades, ready to meet whatever disembarked. 

He didn't get a chance. The ship was better armed than they, and a shot from its cannons took out much of the _Lady Luck_ 's remains. Starscream was jolted forward by the blast, and he lost sight of Megatron amidst the shrapnel. The alien craft landed in the smoke, corkscrewing down into the baked earth and sending up clouds of thick red dust. A hatch opened in its curved hull and a ramp extended. 

Starscream's instincts were torn between battle and flight. He tried to lock optics with Megatron, but he was lost in the dust-cloud. He swore, and fired his thrusters. Just as he kicked off, however, something looped around his ankles and jerked him down. For one irrational moment he recalled Optimus Prime's grapple, and he gunned his engines all the more. He wasn't powerful enough to break free from whatever snared him, and he was tugged down sharply. He hit the rough ground hard enough to scrape his paint. He shook his head, dazed for a nanosec, and when he looked up three squat shapes surrounded him. Starscream squinted to see them more clearly, but before he could identify them a puff of nanite-filled smoke was blasted into his face, and the thick gas filled his intakes. His optics stung, and his throat burned. He thrashed and fought, claws swiping and cannons firing, until the substance reached his processor. Astroseconds later, he blacked out.

*****

He awoke in a cylindrical glass holding cell a little wider than his wingspan. His frame felt heavy, and his mind processed at a sludgy, sluggish pace. He was able to turn his head just enough to see Megatron, to his right, similarly incarcerated. Megatron was already online. Both of them had been disarmed. Megatron glanced Starscream's way, his optics full of fury. 

“The prisoners have awoken.” 

Starscream searched for the source of the rasping vocals, and found it in a squat, slimy techno-organic creature approaching his cell, flanked by two others. A shiver of revulsion gripped him as he recognised the species. Quintesson. The ugly thing drew close to the glass of his cell, and three tentacles extended around the circular wall, gripping onto it with hundreds of tiny suckers. Starscream recoiled in disgust as it pulled itself up until it's grotesque mask of a face was almost level with his own.

“Interesting specimen,” it said. Its head spun like Blitzwing's, and another face said, “Strange energy readings from this one.”

“Strange?” A second Quintesson tapped on the glass of Megatron's cell. “ _This_ one is the leader ”

“He is not!” Starscream growled. He crashed his fists against the glass and raked his claws down the smooth curved surface, but in spite of his strength he couldn't put so much as a chip in it. 

“Yes, yes, as I said, interesting readings. Most fascinating,” said the first Quintesson scientist. “That one has a glitch or two the natives may be able to iron out. It may be a useful frame for manual work, we can use it. But _this_ one...”

“What?” Megatron bristled. “ _Starscream_ -”

“What are you talking about?” Starscream took a step back and his wing tips hit the glass where it curved behind him. He couldn't get away from the staring face, or from the sucking tentacles wrapped around his enclosure. The Quintesson leader seemed to smile, although in that face it was a jagged-toothed grimace.

“Take the big one away. _This_ one I want in the analysis suite immediately.” It climbed down from the glass and bobbed weightlessly in front of the unit once more.

“What? No!” Starscream's cell detached from its docking station and hovered. The two Quintesson assistants guided it with remote devices away from the central room. Starscream looked back at Megatron and scratched futilely at the glass. Megatron's expression was urgent, although his frame was still. He appeared composed, but Starscream knew better. 

Starscream's cell bobbed and hovered its way around a corner. He heard Megatron shout, but he could see him no more.

They took Starscream to a sterile white laboratory, and gassed him again before releasing him from the cell. Starscream tried to swipe his claws at the little reptilian fraggers but the gas made him too slow and clumsy. They got him onto a table, and disconcertingly organic tendrils extended from the slab and strapped him down.

He heard machines begin to hum. His optics darted here and there, but his head had been braced, and he couldn't move it. 

“Prepare the specimen for examination,” one of the Quints said. 

“Examination?” Even his vocal relays were responding slowly. He was slurring. Everything seemed to be moving so fast. 

He felt tendrils start to dig into his plating as the humming of the machines grew louder. Scans brushed his sensors. He tensed and tried to pull at his bonds, but he wasn't strong enough. Something was prying at his cockpit. Another Quintesson's tentacles were probing around his helm, the tip of one worming into the narrow crack in his forehead. Panic rose in his processor, and a fear he hadn't known in millennia tinged his rage. He arched and thrashed, but his restraints only grew tighter until his armour buckled. They got his cockpit open and broke their way into his chamber. He bared his teeth and screamed.

****

Megatron watched them take Starscream, and his spark contracted in alarm. Suddenly he snarled and smashed his fists against the glass that surrounded him. All three Quintessons had gone with Starscream's cell, all chattering busily to one another about having found such an interesting specimen, all deaf and blind to Megatron's rage. His fists didn't so much as crack the glass. He reached for his swords, but their sheaths were empty.

He was left alone in the holding room for several kliks, as if they had forgotten about him. He spent the time trying in vain to escape. 

At length, another pair of the vile creatures came for him, flanked by a cadre of squat mecha all mouth and sharp teeth. They ignored his questions, his demands for answers and freedom, and detached his cell just as they had Starscream's. Its weightless bobbing was disorienting, and he continued to batter at the glass. He expected them to take him wherever they had taken Starscream. They didn't. 

He was taken out onto the planet's surface. The wreckage of the _Lady Luck_ still smouldered, filling the sky with black smoke that blotted out the unforgiving sun. He caught a glimpse of the structure he had left – a sprawling, low complex of buildings, each as stark and featureless as the next. They were utilitarian and ugly, and looked as though they had been dropped onto the packed desert sand pre-constructed, with no thought beyond whatever inscrutable, nefarious designs the Quintessons held. They certainly revealed nothing of what may be going on within.

He only saw the daylight for a few short kliks, however, before his cell was carried to another building. White walls closed around him, and he was taken into a room that looked more like a factory line than a laboratory. There was a row of slabs, tilted at varying steep angles, and each equipped with an array of straps and shackles. On the far side of the room, a dark doorway stood open. Megatron couldn't see into the shadows beyond it.

They sedated him before opening his cage. He snarled and moved to attack, but his guards jostled and growled at him until they got a pair of stasis cuffs on his wrists. He was too sluggish and uncoordinated from the drug to fight them off. The stasis lock grabbed him immediately, and he trembled and fell forward. He landed on his front, immobilised and humiliated. 

“This one is for processing,” said one of his Quintesson custodians. “Examine the processor and make any necessary repairs.”

Megatron was just able to see, by craning his optics, the group of bipedal organics the Quintesson addressed, before the sharkticons hauled him up from the ground and onto a steel slab. His head was fastened into a metal brace, though it was hardly needed; the cuffs meant he couldn't move more than his optics. He opened his mouth to snarl at them, and one of the vile organics bolted a gag across his face. Megatron could barely process, he was so angry. He was _Megatron_. And, beneath the rage, flickered memories of Trypticon, of Akeron, of centuries in bondage. Perhaps it was inescapable. 

“See if you can iron out its defective coding while you're at it,” the Quintesson was saying to the organics. “Its preliminary readings show some peculiar personality quirks that should be remedied before it is fit for labour.”

“Labour, master?” There was a clanking sound of ratchets, and the slab Megatron was fastened to was lowered. The organic leaned over him, its hideous, ape-like face inches from his own. Its greasy fingers were digging under the back of Megatron's helm. He felt something start to pry at the plates, trying to lever them apart. “Maybe the saw for this one,” it muttered to one of its companions. “Oh no, here it is...”

“This one is for the energon mine. We will see about resale later, depending on how it performs,” the Quintesson said. “We have reason to believe this may be an unruly one. Considering the problems we have had with the chip's efficacy in previous batches, we cannot afford to have another failure.”

“Yes sir,” the organic mumbled.

“Well then,” the lead Quintesson rasped. “We will leave it in your _capable_ hands.” The Quintessons turned and floated from the room, guiding their hovering flight with touches of their tentacles on the pink-stained floor. Megatron strained to break his restraints and follow them, but he was bound and helpless, and his shouts were muffled by the gag. His bright optics darted wildly, searching for an escape as the organic creatures closed in, their compassionless eyes showing nothing but boredom. He prepared himself for pain; if this was what they had planned for him, then what was Starscream enduring? 

Starscream was immortal, he told himself. They couldn't harm him. But then his spark shrank, chilled to the core by an alien, unfamiliar fear; the worst they could do to Megatron was _kill_ him. The worst they could do to an undying mech, on the other hand...

The exterior doors swung and slammed shut, and the long room was cast into murky shadow. It didn't seem to inhibit the organics, as they lifted a panel in the back of his helm and dug down into his neural net. Megatron winced. There was pain, but Megatron was more concerned with just _what_ they were doing. They muttered amongst themselves, and an object was passed between them to the technician working at his helm. 

He had been fighting against the stasis-lock and against the cuffs relentlessly, and he thought he was finally starting to get the cuffs to budge. It was over before he could so much as twitch a servo.

The bodies that had surrounded him in a cluster now stepped back, and he felt his helm carelessly resealed. He tried to tilt his head. There was a pressure inside his helm, and a headache that steadily grew in intensity as the astroseconds passed. 

“Easy job,” one of the flesh-bags was saying. “He should be ready for reconditioning in a minute or two.”

Megatron's head felt fuzzy. He frowned behind the gag. The slab he was on was suddenly lowered flat and disconnected from its base. Several of the organics pushed the erratically hovering surface, Megatron still fastened to it, toward the door that led deeper into the building. They were talking amongst themselves, chattering aimlessly, but Megatron let their words pass over him. He felt muddled, confused; something was definitely _wrong_. Files were refusing to open, and as his alarm rose and he searched deeper into his banks, others could simply not be found. He was losing himself, unravelling like an old datatrack. 

As he was pushed beneath the arch of the dark doorway and his optics plunged into shadow, he tried frantically to clutch at the fraying threads of his memories. He clung onto the few files he had left, and fragmented moments played out in his mind before dissolving into meaningless code. Just before his mind went dark, he was standing in the captain's rooms on the _Lady Luck_ , kissing Starscream. For a perfect instant, everything was clear as Vosian crystal. Then the darkness crept down, and Starscream was stepping away from him, leaving him, leaving him alone, and he was left with just the fading echo of something Starscream had said, heard as if from very far away. He had said, “I need you.”


	6. Hierarchy

Vault sat in a small, ground-level bar in the glitzy heart of Monacus's hub, nursing a cube of rich black oil. It was a nicer place than the dives he usually went for, but it was busy and the energon was the best he'd tasted since long before taking the Autobot mark. He had left Blitzwing on the shuttle, safely docked in one of the skyscraper ports, and gone in search of somewhere to refuel and rest. They'd brought the ship down only that solar cycle, after a rough journey fleeing from Autotroopers and Earthlings alike, and Vault was in sore need of a stiff drink. Primus knew where Blitzwing had got to by now, of course. The mech was unstable and unpredictable, and while Vault shared a comradely friendship with the triple-changer, he still didn't entirely trust him not to do something crazy. 

He took a swallow of his thick, bitter drink and sighed. In spite of his cares, his frame started to relax.

“You look like you could use a tune-up,” a deep voice said from Vault's left side. He wet his lips and looked up. A red mech had hopped onto the stool beside him, and now leant an elbow on the counter and aimed a smooth smile his way. 

Vault directed a lazy smirk at the handsome mech beside him. “No thanks. Just had a rough couple of cycles, is all,” he said. 

“That's a real shame,” the red mech said smoothly. He gestured to Vault's frame. “I could give you a really thorough... examination.” He smiled and waggled his optic ridges. 

Vault laughed. “Thanks, pal. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer sometime,” he said, shaking his head. The smaller mech looked crestfallen, so Vault added, “How about I get your frequency first?”

He saw the bot's red-on-black optics cycle wider and then a grin crept onto his face.

The mech handed him a small holo-strip with his unique communications frequency imprinted upon it. “Call me if you ever need a doctor,” he said with a smile. 

*****

This wasn't Blitzwing's first trip to Monacus. As soon as he was able, he had slipped away from Vault and taken to his wings. He had an inkling, the faintest spark of an idea, and he wanted to see if it held any weight. It was a gamble, but he had to take the risk.

He pulled up old maps onto his HUD. They were out of date, but as he flew over the city's hub he transposed them over his visual readouts. He adjusted his course a degree to the east and climbed. 

_Ah, yes._

He was approaching a cluster of thick, old-looking towers. In the centre was a tall structure that looked rather more tumble-down than the rest. There were no lights in the lower half, but the higher floors had some illuminated windows, and the roof even had guide lights to help aerials to land. It looked, aside from its worn fortifications, almost identical to the hundreds of other such towers bristling from the Monacus horizon, but Blitzwing knew better. 

He hardly needed the lights to guide him, and he circled just once before landing gracefully in altmode. He transformed at once, and cast an analytical sensor-scan over the landing platform. It was deserted and, beyond the pools of white light from the guide lights, . He took a step-

And was immediately surrounded. 

He couldn't make out the bots clearly in the shadow – he realised now the true purpose of the guide lights was to provide enough glare to darken the shadows beyond. His proximity sensors didn't pick up any spark readings, which either meant he was surrounded by dead mechs, or something was jamming their signals. His optics struggled to adjust. He heard the click and hum of weapons powering up.

Rage claimed him – how dare they threaten _him_ , a member of the command elite for aeons? He'd been assigned to the _Nemesis_ , he'd been Shockwave's guard while he held the throne, and even now he remained in the confidence of his rightful Lords. Heat coursed through him and threatened to erupt from his suddenly-primed flame-cannons.

“Stand down, you insignificant defects! You cowards! Come out and face me like Decepticons!”

“Brave of you to flaunt that name with so little caution.” The voice that rang out was deep and and cold, and Blitzwing turned his blazing optics in that direction. A tall, slender shape detached itself from the rest of the shadows, and advanced until it became a mech that Blitzwing recognised. “It's a dangerous time to wear the brand, after all.”

Blitzwing's anger turned to puzzled interest, and he straightened, cooling off. “Cyclonus,” he said. 

The slim mech stepped forward with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was guarded. “Blitzwing, is it? I thought you were rusting on Akeron.” He sounded bored. “Disengage,” Cyclonus said. The bots around him finally stood down, but Blitzwing could still feel the tension. “What brings you out here?”

Blitzwing narrowed his optics. Such distrust from fellow Decepticons was... troubling. 

Not a one of them of them moved. 

“We are refuelling on our way to New Kaon,” Blitzwing began carefully. 

Cyclonus's optics narrowed to slits. “Why the Pit would _you_ be going to that wasteland?”

Blitzwing studied his face, took in the reined hostility of his welcome, and a connection sparked in his glitched-up processor. Suddenly he started to laugh. He threw his head back and cackled wildly. He knew he had lost control, but he couldn't stop. 

They didn't understand. They didn't _know_.

Cyclonus snarled and moved to draw his blades. “Just what do you find so amusing, glitch? Start explaining, at once.”

Blitzwing kept laughing, but he soon paused to catch his breath. “You bots missed the memo.” He shook his head. “I wasn't the only bot that busted out,” he said with a grin. He cycled a deep intake and calmed himself again. “There is something you need to know.”

“I don't need to know anything you have to tell me, traitor,” Cyclonus growled. He had drawn his blades, and he levelled one at Blitzwing as he stepped forward. “Why would I trust Shockwave's dog? The treacherous scum that murdered our rightful leader?”

 _Ah, there's the crux of it_ , Blitzwing thought. Cyclonus was a loyalist of the old kind, and had sworn no fealty to Shockwave. Likely his band were all the same. This far from Akeron, knowledge of Megatron's true fate was ill-known, and the warlord's long silence had given rise to the belief that their lost leader was, indeed, offline. Blitzwing wondered how this small pocket of loyalists had survived in the face of that hopeless belief, let alone avoided Shockwave's ire at their disobedience.

Blitzwing took a step back as Cyclonus advanced, and he felt the circle around him cinch closer. They knew him as a bot who had stood by while Shockwave rose to power, his inaction taken for support when Shockwave coldly disposed of their true leader. Spark knew what stories they had heard, but they would kill him for his treachery long before allowing him to explain. Unless he stopped them. It was time to drop the bomb, and set the record straight.

“Megatron lives.”

Cyclonus froze. He stared at Blitzwing with scarlet optics that threatened murder, and after a long and critical pause, he said, “You're lying.” 

He raised his blades, about to lunge, when suddenly another voice cut through the night: “Actually, he's right.”

Cyclonus paused and looked beyond Blitzwing. Blitzwing, against his better judgement, turned. The speaker stepped forward – a lithe femme, and one Blitzwing remembered. “Don't shoot,” Blackarachnia said lightly, raising her slim talons in mock surrender.

Cyclonus slowly sheathed his blades, but his frame remained tense, his expression dark as a thundercloud. Bemused, but interested, Blitzwing laughed. “Blackarachnia. Didn't you desert?”

Blackarachnia shrugged. “A thousand years is a long time, Three-Face. A lot can change.”

The look Cyclonus gave the femme was disapproving but not hostile. “You picked an apt moment to arrive,” he said.

“I just got back. Had orders from the General to check in,” Blackarachnia said. “The Autobot Command's put a price on his helm, it's all over the network. You would know about it if you weren't so dead-set on isolating this place. You should see the figure.” She nodded toward Blitzwing. “Where did _he_ come from?”

Cyclonus sighed and rolled his shoulders. “We can continue this inside.” He glanced upward. The sky was clear over this part of the city, but he did not seem reassured. “Follow me. Watch him.”

Blackarachnia offered Cyclonus a careless salute. “Yes sir.” She gave Blitzwing a wry look. “Move,” she said.

They led Blitzwing down into the tower. As they moved, he was able to see just how few bots he had been menaced by. The cell was small, and each of them looked battered and under-fuelled. Somehow he found himself walking in step with Blackarachnia. He gave her a sidelong look, and kept his voice down when he asked, “What brought you back to the ranks?”

Blackarachnia didn't speak for several paces, and Blitzwing thought she would ignore him. But then she said, “I was stranded on Earth for a long time.” She spoke with her vocals low, and didn't look at him. “I got to know my organic side a lot better while I was lost in that foetid jungle. Without it I would have starved.” Blitzwing gave her a curious look, but she remained hard and closed off from his scrutiny. “I expected the Autobots to rescue me, but no-bot came. So when I was finally able to leave that accursed planet, I caught the first transwarp back out to the Decepticon rim. Things were bad, Megatron captured, 'Cons being hunted down like I'd never known before. But there were still some Decepticons on the outside.” She nodded toward Cyclonus, where he walked ahead of them. “Cutting a long story short, I needed somewhere to go, and they took me in... With them, with him... Well, let's just say I know where I stand, now. Better than I ever did before,” she finished. Blitzwing thought there was plenty the femme wasn't telling, but he didn't push for details. He of all mechs knew a bot deserved a second chance. 

Three floors down, the dark stairwell opened up into a gallery. It was lit by the starlight beyond the long glass wall on the east side, and the candy-coloured glow of the city lights. A long, polished table filled the space, and Cyclonus moved to the head of it. Blitzwing was left at the opposite end, flanked by Blackarachnia and another Decepticon he didn't know. The others filed into the room around the table. Blitzwing had the odd feeling he was on trial.

Cyclonus linked his hands behind his back and regarded Blitzwing in grave silence for some minutes. Blitzwing waited coolly until Cyclonus decided to speak.

“You say Megatron is alive,” Cyclonus eventually said. “And that he has escaped from his prison. Blackarachnia has confirmed as much.” He turned his head to gaze out of the window. His expression was troubled. “I admit it is a grave lapse on my part that this information only comes to us now. We believed for so long that... Well. Word must be sent to the General at once,” he said, and then turned back to Blitzwing. In a sterner tone, he said, “Is it true that Starscream the Traitor also lives?”

Blitzwing cleared his throat. “Starscream does live, that is true. But he is no more a traitor than you or I.” It wasn't exactly true, but Blitzwing knew first-hand how things had changed. These bots had to know. 

Cyclonus's lip curled, and many of the other assembled bots murmured in scorn and disagreement. “Explain yourself,” Cyclonus snapped. 

Blitzwing saw no reason to mince words. He drew himself up, and spoke in crisp, clear tones. “Starscream is the reason Megatron and I escaped from Akeron prison. He revived Megatron from the shame of his defeat and placed him once more in command of his army.” His voice was cold, and as he spoke he saw varying degrees of suspicion and awe on the Decepticons' faces. He fought to control the anger that welled within him. They would rather stew in disbelief than rally to their leader's call. He brought his fist down on the table, but kept his cool. “Our leader is returned to us. Our pride is returned to us! My own loyalty has never been in question, but even I can see that Starscream's return is the catalyst we all need to pull ourselves back from the brink of destruction.”

Cyclonus scoffed and folded his arms. “One traitor cannot change millions of years of humiliation,” he said. “Where has this prodigal hero been for the last thousand stellar cycles?”

“I heard he died,” Blackarachnia muttered. 

Blitzwing nodded. “That is also true.” He gestured to the ragtag assembly of bots around the table. “A mech returns from the very Pit to destroy the real traitor and return our true leader to us.” From any other mech, his speech would sound impassioned. But Blitzwing was trying very hard to hold onto the cool he desperately needed here – his words were delivered with clinical precision, and his tone was hard. To lose his composure or succumb to rage would cause the seriousness of his message to be lost. He realised now how crucial it was to win these bots' sparks back to the cause. They believed themselves loyal, but they had been lost and leaderless for too many years. Even when Shockwave had nominally commanded, they had rejected his authority. They were used to governing themselves, and utterly disillusioned with the command chain as it had been.

“What real traitor?” Cyclonus asked, his optics narrowing in suspicion. “Do you mean to tell me Shockwave has perished also?”

Blitzwing experienced a wave of calm as victory came within his grasp. “By Starscream's own command,” he said. There was a collective intake of breath. The corner of Blitzwing's mouth twitched into a tiny smirk. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Shockwave offered him the chance at a pardon and reinstatement, in return for Megatron's execution. But Starscream refused. Instead he destroyed Shockwave and freed Lord Megatron, and even now they travel toward New Kaon to reclaim the throne that was stolen from them.”

“They will find that throne broken and in dust,” Cyclonus said with a sneer. “And besides, one throne is not large enough for two. A new-spark could tell you as much.”

Blitzwing, crestfallen, looked from Cyclonus to the other bots. To his relief, the others did not look as cynical as their leader. He saw hope kindled in many optics. 

Blarackarachnia was the one to break the awed silence. “If you're travelling there, why aren't you with them? Where is Megatron now?”

Blitzwing pressed his lips together for a moment. “We were separated,” he said. “Our ship came under attack, and Lord Starscream sent myself and another officer onward-”

Cyclonus slammed his palm on the table and exploded, “ _Lord_ Starscream? Already he has elevated himself from traitor to Lord! And now he has conveniently disappeared - _with_ our leader.” He laughed bitterly. “Lord Megatron may already be dead.”

Blitzwing could hold onto his control no longer. This time when he brought his fist down he cracked the stone of the table-top. His rage claimed him, and he roared, “Megatron _lives_!”

The room fell into shocked silence. Blitzwing vented heavily, regretting his lapse but unable to still his roiling spark enough to quell his anger. 

A moment later, it was again Blackarachnia who spoke first. “I believe him,” she said softly. Blitzwing looked at her, and felt his fury recede. She folded her arms and shrugged as all optics turned on her. “Once that glitch-head Starscream sets his mind to something, he won't quit. If he's decided to restore Megatron to his throne, then that's what he'll do... And if Megatron has let him live to do it, well...” She shrugged again. “I don't trust Starscream. Most of you don't trust Blitzwing. But trust Megatron.”

Blitzwing straightened. Cool-headed once more, he murmured, “Such words from a deserter.” He hadn't intended it as an attack, but she bristled all the same.

“I doubted once,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. When she spoke her optics blazed scarlet and her fangs showed. “Yes, I lost my way. I let my own obsession get in the way of the vow I took for granted. But I returned. I wasn't built a Decepticon, but I know now that my spark is 'Con through and through. If _any_ of you downgrades can say the same, then you should be ashamed to hesitate when your true leader calls. That's why Blitzwing is here,” she said, and gestured to him. “To call us back to Megatron's side.”

Cyclonus had his arms folded, and frowned as if in thought, his optics cast down. “The Autobots have almost destroyed us these last thousand stellar cycles,” he said, his low, sonorous voice carrying clearly across the room. “If Megatron has truly returned, it may be still not be enough to turn everything around. The Great War is over, or so the Autobots say.”

“If that is truly so,” Blitzwing said crisply, “then let us prove them wrong.”

*****

“You said you came here with a comrade,” Cyclonus said, later. “Where is he now?”

Blitzwing set down his cube. Some joors had passed since his initial introduction to this rogue band of 'Cons, and some of the tension of his arrival had eased. Most of the group had settled in a large common hall set out with long dark tables for dining. One wall sported floor to ceiling arched windows all along its length. Night on the asteroid was never truly dark, Blitzwing mused – the city created its own cloud of colour, blending with the darkness of space behind. Lighting within the hall itself was limited to a few tall braziers burning with low pink flames. The 'Cons were spread out, some gathering in groups while others preferred to nurse their fuel alone. There weren't enough bots to fill the hall, and most of the space stood in lonely shadow. It was not the rowdy celebration Blitzwing expected, but it was something, at least.

Cyclonus sat at the head of one table, Blackarachnia on his right. Blitzwing sat opposite her. A couple of other bots Blitzwing only vaguely recalled had come to join them – a small flier named Glaive, and a rangy warrior calling himself Flintlock. Cyclonus's sober mood seemed to be affecting them all. 

Blitzwing glanced up to see both Blackarachnia and Cyclonus watching him intently. He gave a half shrug. 

“I left him when we docked. He probably went to find the nearest bar,” he said in answer to Cyclonus's question.

“Bring him to us,” Cyclonus said. His bluntness made Blitzwing frown. The command chain within this ragtag unit was clear, but Blitzwing did not answer to it, and Cyclonus's imperious assurance that he would be obeyed only raised Blitzwing's hackles. He glanced from Cyclonus to the other bots. 

He could not afford to lose his temper again. With Starscream claiming equal status with Megatron – and Megatron allowing it – the position of Megatron's right hand had fallen to Blitzwing instead. There had been no-one else. Blitzwing knew his reputation, but he also knew that Megatron needed a reliable officer at his side if the war was to be won. Blitzwing he knew he could step up and be that officer. He just needed to get his glitch under control.

Before he could respond, however, Cyclonus jerked his head at Blackarachnia. “She will accompany you, to ensure you return.” When Blitzwing raised a brow questioningly, Cyclonus explained, “You were in Shockwave's subspace-pocket. What assurance do I have you won't simply carry the co-ordinates of our base to our enemies?” Blitzwing thought he sounded defensive. It caused Blitzwing an almost physical pain to swallow his anger. 

Blackarachnia swept to her feet. “Let's go now,” she said briskly. Then, in a more measured tone, she added, “The sooner we have them both back here, the easier it'll be to keep an optic on them.”

Cyclonus gave her a grudging nod, and Blackarachnia gestured to Blitzwing to follow her. Blitzwing was all too eager to get away from Cyclonus. 

They left the hall side by side, and Blitzwing felt many optics follow them as they went. The corridor outside was dark and cool, the high walls polished black stone. They descended a staircase, and then another. Blitzwing found himself falling a step behind the femme as she led the way out of the maze. 

When Blitzwing spoke, his voice echoed in the long, high-ceilinged walkway they strode down. “How is it that Cyclonus doubts my loyalty?” he said. He kept his tone flat and cold, and he practically trembled at the restraint that required. “Does he think I stumbled upon this safe-house by chance? I've been here before, with Lord Megatron.”

Blackarachnia abruptly halted and wheeled on him. Blitzwing stumbled to a stop. The femme was far smaller than him, but as she narrowed all her optics at him he found himself taking a step back. 

“Why shouldn't he? You've been locked away in Shockwave's fortress for a thousand stellar cycles. You were there, you watched him take Megatron's power from him and did nothing to stop it. For all he knows, you're here spying for Shockwave right now.” 

The venom in her low vocals took Blitzwing by surprise. He grit his teeth, and hissed, “Is that what _you_ believe?” He fought for calm, he fought _so hard_...

Blackarachnia bared her fangs. “Why do you care what I believe? I'm just a deserter, after all. Not like you, you stayed _loyal_ -”

“I followed my orders!” Blitzwing exploded. His taut control snapped. Fury boiled out of him and he shouted in her face, “You turned your back on the brand and your vows, and only came crawling back when your worthless Autobot friends refused to take you in. You are a snivelling coward and a traitor! I am more of a Decepticon than you will ever be!”

Blackarachnia, instead of backing down, gave a barbaric bark of laughter. “ _There_ you are! Why were you holding back? You know there's no point in pretending with _me_.”

Blitzwing stared at her in mute anger, and then the absurdity of his pretence struck him like a wave. Not only had he served alongside Blackarachnia on the _Nemesis_ for years, but it had been her tinkering that had given him his glitch. He could struggle for control until his spark gave out, but Blackarachnia knew the truth of what he was. A flood of sharp laughter bubbled out of him, and his face split in a crimson grin. 

“Ah, how I've missed dancing with you!” He grabbed Blackarachnia's waist and spun her to him. He grabbed her hand and dipped her with a flourish. She glared up at him, breathless and startled.

“Let go of me, you three-faced maniac,” she hissed, though her fury was muted. “We don't have time for this.”

He laughed and pulled her to her feet. One more twirl, and then he let her go. This time, when calm returned to him, it felt natural rather than forced. He fixed Blackarachnia with an unapologetic gaze. 

“You know my loyalty has never been swayed,” he said. “Shockwave was corrupted by the power Megatron gave him. Perhaps if I had been a little less loyal, I would never have allowed Shockwave to seize as much power as he did.” He gave a quick sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “And that was where Starscream came in, I suppose. Come, let's find Vault.”

Blackarachnia shook her head. “Lead the way,” she said. “You mad glitch.”

*****

Vault left the bar and headed outside. A network of elevated walkways and roads linked the towers together, all lit in screaming neon. Vault luxuriated in the busy press of the city. After the grim loneliness of Akeron and the sleepy claustrophobia of the _Lady Luck_ , it soothed his spark to be somewhere so populated and alive. 

He was a little overcharged. Alone, he wandered into a quieter part of town. He was high above ground level now, and here the walkway opened out into a much larger platform where a sort of garden had been created using crystals and strangely beautiful alien plants, whose spindly limbs were draped and wrapped with lights. It was a peaceful spot, and he seemed to be the only bot there. 

He walked to the ornately decorated barrier at the edge, and looked down.

“Most bots would be looking at the sky.” A low, female voice spoke behind him. “Or the garden.”

“Crystal roses were never my thing,” Vault said. “I thought I was alone.”

He turned to face the newcomer. A slender femme stood with her hand on her hip, watching him with scarlet eyes. Clearly a Decepticon, if the brand on her smoothly curved chest-plates was anything to go by. Vault cocked his head. 

“You sure you don't want company?” she said. She sauntered forward and leant her elbows on the rail beside Vault. Vault took his time in lighting a cygarette. He offered one to the femme, but she declined with a shake of her head.

“I don't know,” he said. “Depends on the company.”

“The name's Blackarachnia. Don't tell me you don't mix with Decepticons.”

Vault laughed softly and tapped the brand on his chest. “I don't know what you're doing on this rock, but it seems we're on the same team, you and I,” he said. “Is there a reason you've stopped to chat?” He turned and leant his hands on the rail. He watched a hover-car sweep past below them. “This is real romantic and everything, but something tells me you didn't come all the way out here just to sweet talk me.”

The femme arched her back and stretched. “You're right. I didn't come here for romance.” She stood up and turned to him. “I came to find a branded mech and bring him in. I see your brand, but I don't know you.” She gestured to him, indicating his black paint-job and custom frame. 

Vault smirked. “And you wanna know if I'm 'Con enough to welcome into the fold,” he said. “I'm guessing Blitz told you about me.” At Blackarachnia's nod, he continued, “I am a 'Con, though I guess you could say I've been away for a while.”

“You're a traitor, then?” Blackarachnia said. 

Vault shrugged. “By your reckoning, twice-over. If this is a test, I'll probably fail. I was sparked neutral. I was a merc long before I was a 'Con. Got my first brand after signing on around the time Vos fell. Seemed like the logical thing to do, after all. Megatron galvanised the Decepticons in a way Megazarak never could have, and they looked to be the winning side of that war.” He took a long drag on his cygarette. 

“And when the scales shifted, you changed your mind,” the femme said uneasily.

“Life as a repentant Autobot looked a whole lot better than exile. Believe it or not,” he said with a smirk, “the blue optics are the ones I was sparked with.”

“So does this mean we look like the winning side again?” Blackarachnia asked sceptically. “What happened to change your mind?”

Vault shrugged one shoulder. “Starscream happened.”

Blackarachnia narrowed all four optics and growled. “ _Him_ again.” She waved a hand dismissively. “All right, fine. Follow me – I'll take you to Cyclonus. _He'll_ be able to tell if you're really worthy of that brand you wear.”

Vault's smirk disappeared. Slowly, he drew himself up; his friendly, bantering façade was abruptly gone, leaving only the cold-eyed mercenary beneath. He dropped his cygarette and ground it out with his pede. He fixed Blackarachnia with a dark look, and growled, “Lady, the mech who gave me this mark sure thought I was worthy to wear it. That's all I need to know.”

Hostile tension arced between them for a charged moment, but Vault was spared Blackarachnia's venomous response when a hand suddenly clapped him on the back, making him stumble.

“Ah! There you are! I see you have already met my old comrade, Blackarachnia,” Blitzwing said jovially. He grinned at the both of them. Blackarachnia rolled her optics and turned away, to look out over the railing. Vault let out a slow sigh, and some of his tension with it.

Blitzwing left his arm around Vault's shoulders as his face spun, and he said coolly, “We should hurry and return to the safe-house. There is much to discuss.”

Vault grudgingly nodded. Safe-house? Blitzwing had been busy since they parted, and all Vault had done was drown his worries with high-grade. His mouth twisted bitterly, but he let the triple-changer lead the way away from the garden, and Blackarachnia stalked sulkily behind them.

*****

They stayed on Monacus for longer than either of them intended. Upon their return to the safe-house, Cyclonus grudgingly put them both up in a shared room big enough for ten mechs. Their quarters were bare, and clearly the reserve of guests and those who passed through the area only briefly, but there was comfort enough in the cool chamber of dark stone for bots more used to bunking in an old space-craft. 

They stayed on Monacus, and waited for Megatron and Starscream. Starscream had told them to rendezvous on the asteroid, but he hadn't given them any idea of when that should occur. 

For the most part, Blitzwing remained patient. He used the time to speak more with Blackarachnia and Cyclonus, and urge the latter to stir his troops to their masters' aid. Meanwhile, Vault spent his days mingling with the troops themselves. His easy and companionable attitude made him well-disposed to gaining the acceptance of the 'Cons, despite his own ambiguous background. He shared energon with them, and captivated them with tales of Starscream's return from the grave, as if the seeker had returned with the sole purpose to rejoin his former leader's side and carry him to freedom. The 'Cons relished the stories of Megatron's glorious return, but Blitzwing heard Vault regale them also with other tales, such as how Vault himself had felled Shockwave the Pretender, or how “Lord” Starscream had single-handedly defeated the wild seekers of Xerissa to win them to his master's cause. Blitzwing tutted and shook his head at the latter, dismissing it as generous embellishment, and indeed the 'Cons remained suspicious of Starscream even as the stories of his resurrection caught their imaginations. Even so, Blitzwing did recall how Vault and Starscream had been missing for much of their time on that planet, so perhaps there was a grain of truth to the mech's tall tales after all.

The result of all this was that Vault became popular, even more so when Blitzwing confirmed the truth of Shockwave's demise. He was accepted, and his impassioned stories caught their sparks. Blitzwing saw hope rekindled in many a cold-sparked warrior. Blitzwing, meanwhile, chipped away at Cyclonus's stoic resolve that they should wait for General Strika's order before moving out. Word had been sent to her, but the necessarily covert nature of the Decepticons' communication network meant that a reply may be some time in coming. Blitzwing had his doubts that intelligence would even be shared with him when it did return, in any case. His unofficial rank seemed to brook little respect with Cyclonus. It chafed to know that a mech he had always outranked now bypassed him entirely in his dealings with higher command.

Strika, he came to understand, had not so much risen to power as much as simply assumed it was hers and acted accordingly. It had proven a surprisingly effective tactic. She had rejected Shockwave's authority entirely, and cultivated units of soldiers loyal to Megatron's memory. Blitzwing learned, too, that prior to his arrival, many had not believed that Megatron still lived at all. In spite of this, he never heard Strika referred to with any title higher than “General”.

The enquiries he tried to make about the rest of the army were met with disappointing vagueness. Shockwave's forces were scattered and covert, a shadow army well-embedded in the Autobot infrastructure. If there was any overlap between the two sub-factions, Blitzwing had not yet been able to discern it.

Vault, meanwhile, grew more distant and distracted the longer they spent on the asteroid. He was still jovial with the troops he worked so hard to win over, but in the down-shifts he had taken to pacing their quarters, or else disappearing to drink until the small hours in the local bars. Blitzwing guessed his restlessness was a result of forced inaction – they were trapped on the crowded little rock, most of the time within Cyclonus's tower itself. Any bot would get stir-crazy. What he didn't know was that the real reason behind the black mech's agitation was his creeping sense of dread, which grew every cycle Starscream was gone. Vault intended to keep it that way. 

By now everybot knew Megatron and Starscream were late. They knew Starscream had dragged their precious leader on some errand, and many suspected to his doom. So far Blitzwing hadn't asked Vault _where_ they had gone, but it was only a matter of time, and Vault knew he didn't want to tell. He knew next to nothing of Torkulon. He had visited once, two million years ago, passing through during a mission. He hadn't expected Starscream to go flying off there on a whim and take Megatron with him. More than that, he had expected Starscream to reach Monacus by now. Every day that passed, every whispered suspicion, made his armour prickle. If anything happened to Starscream... His spark contracted, and he swayed where he sat as a wave of vertigo rushed through him and left him nauseous. He tightened his grip on his oil cup and grit his teeth. He had never let himself care about another bot this much before, and the sick feeling of guilt mixed with fear was an unfamiliar cocktail. He cycled a deep breath. Starscream would come through. Whatever happened, he told himself, Starscream would come through. The mech faced down a horde of angry seekers, for spark's sake. There was nothing that could stop him. 

Vault nodded, satisfied for now with his conclusion. He took another gulp of oil, and turned his head when he saw a flash of red in the corner of his optic. He pushed down the small, doubtful part of his spark that whispered he could tell himself whatever he wanted to make himself feel better, do whatever he wanted to distract himself. There was nothing he could do about it anyway.


	7. Fifty-Fifty

Lockdown spent the night in his workshop, drinking refined oil and brooding. He dozed in his chair for joors, only to awake and check the feed yet again. Starscream's image grinned at him from the viz-screen. Lockdown knew he couldn't turn that hunt down. If somebot else got to Starscream before he did, he might never find out why his prize trophy had come back to life to make his life a misery.

Dawn eventually rolled around, and he stretched, rolled his shoulders, and eased a painful kink from his neck. He reluctantly decided he should check on Prowl. He grabbed a cube of mid grade and set off for the ninja's room.

Prowl was curled on the berth. The stasis cuffs lay open on the floor. Lockdown sighed.

“I should kill you for last night,” Prowl said. Of course he was awake. The little glitch had probably expected him for joors. Lockdown wondered at his even staying in the room – cuffs and locks clearly would only hold the ninjabot for so long.

He bent and picked up the cuffs with his hook. “Nice to see you too,” he said. He placed the cube and the cuffs on the table and turned back to Prowl.

The lithe mech had sat up, and now sat with his back straight and his legs crossed. A scratch across his chassis showed raw protoform beneath the metal, and he was still coated in dried energon from the mech he had killed. Lockdown tutted.

“You're a mess, kid.”

“I was a mess last night. There aren't any wash racks here.”

Lockdown had to laugh, though he did it only briefly and quietly. “You expect me to believe the lock would keep _you_ trapped? P-over-M got your cuffs off, after all.”

Prowl sniffed. “It's coming back to me, yes.”

“There, see? All that spiritual mumbo jumbo is good for somethin' after all.”He nodded toward Prowl's damage. “Does that hurt?”

“You've hardly shown yourself to be concerned for my welfare,” Prowl said coldly.

“Aw c'mon,” Lockdown moaned. “I knew you weren't in any danger.” Prowl raised a brow. “...Maybe you don't remember, but when you first woke up you were pretty slaggin' feral. Almost killed me a few times. You were lethal before you died, but now you're somethin' else.”

Prowl looked down. Lockdown thought he was shaking, just slightly. The little bot was looking at his hands. Lockdown exhaled, a slow, careful sigh. Prowl was one high-maintenance glitch.

“...C'mon. Let me fix your damage, at least.”

With a lot of coaxing, taunting, and entreaties, Lockdown was able to get Prowl to the workshop. The feed was still up on the screen. A few of the hits had changed, but Starscream and Megatron remained at the top of the list. Prowl's attention was caught by it immediately, but Lockdown steered him onto the repair berth nonetheless. Prowl read the screen while Lockdown collected his tool kit.

Prowl obligingly, if reluctantly, lay back, and Lockdown swabbed some of the crusted energon away from the wound. Prowl's abdomen flexed as he tensed. Lockdown tried to be careful – more for his own well-being than for Prowl's. He knew how vindictive the little glitch could be.

“So tell me, kid,” Lockdown said once he had cleaned away the mess and began on his real repairs. He was not trained as a medic, but he had spent millennia taking bots – and himself – apart, and by now it was second nature to also know how to put them back together again. All you needed was to understand how the parts fitted together. He wondered if Prowl dulled his sensors. Lockdown never bothered when he carried out his own self-modifications, and he was curious as to how hard the little ninja really was.

“What?” Prowl said. He lay still, aside from the occasional twitch when Lockdown's hand was too heavy.

“What happened?”

“Hm?” Prowl finally moved his attention from the view screen to Lockdown. The hunter started to weld the cut closed. Prowl grit his teeth, and his fingers gripped the edges of the berth hard as he fought to remain still.

“You know,” Lockdown said. “The Well of All Sparks, the Pit. You died, kid. Don't you remember anything? Why did you-”

“Why did I come back?” Prowl interrupted. “...You mean to say you didn't have a hand in it?”

Lockdown laughed. “Kid, you were meant to be somethin' pretty for the wall, not a fraggin' responsibility. One cycle you were dead an' cold, the next you were tryin' to tear my spark out.”

Prowl shivered in spite of the heat of the welding torch. Lockdown powered it down. The cut was sealed, the inner components aligned. He hoped Prowl still had a self-repair system that was functional enough to complete the process. He hunted in his kit for some nanites that would help things along.

“My... my memory of that time isn't very clear,” Prowl admitted as he gingerly sat up. “Although trying to kill you seems like a perfectly rational course of action.”

Lockdown ignored this. “Drink this,” he said, and raised a small vial of blue liquid. Prowl took it and inspected it. “Healing nanites. You ain't got a spark any more – not that I checked – so Unicron knows what's keepin' you tickin'.”

“Hm.” Prowl drank the nanite solution in three deep gulps and passed the empty bottle back to Lockdown. “Energon, as far as I can tell.

“Well, then it's a good thing you earned some creds for us, ain't it?” Lockdown said with a leering smile. He straightened and set about putting his tools away. “That'll hold good enough, but you might want it buffed out and repainted. Pretty bot like you prob'ly don't want a scar.”

“Please, tell me what else you know about 'pretty bots' like me,” Prowl said crisply. He swung his legs off the edge of the berth and hopped down, silent and graceful as always. He moved over to the computer terminal and got a closer look at the screen. “...I didn't realise the sums were so high.”

“Heh.” Lockdown chuckled. “Only for the really big game they are,” he said. He set his straightened kit back in its place. Maybe he should just tell Prowl his plan after all. It was all about him, anyway. He squared his shoulders and turned around. “Say, I had an idea I've been meanin' to run by ya.”

Prowl glanced over his shoulder. Lockdown nodded toward Starscream's grinning face. “Seems you're not the only glitch returned from the dead. What do you say we track down Starscream and find some answers?”

“Just like old times,” Prowl said. He no doubt appreciated the irony. He turned back to the screen, clicked on Starscream's picture, and read through the additional notes – known associates, last recorded locations, etcetera. “And I'm sure the massive bounty on his head is no small motivation for _you_ to find him, either.”

Lockdown shrugged and grinned. “Hey, it's win-win. You get to find out why you're back from the dead, and I get the cash.” Prowl gave him a pointed look. “I get half the cash,” Lockdown amended.

Lockdown wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smirk curve the corner of Prowl's mouth. The little ninjabot turned back to the screen.

“Fifty-fifty. Sounds like my kind of deal.”

*****

Before they left Andala, Lockdown wanted to go on one last hunt. Or, as he put it, the first real hunt he'd been on since Prowl woke up. Prowl hadn't forgiven him for throwing him into the death pit, but even he had to admit that having the creds to buy fuel was nothing to complain about. They stayed on the planet several solars longer than Lockdown had initially planned while he hunted up the details. Lockdown said he wanted to test Prowl's mettle, as though his victory in the arena had been a fluke. Prowl did not feel comfortable proving how lethal he was, although he was sure he had the necessary skill.

It was just over half a deca-cycle after the night at the arena that Lockdown interrupted Prowl's evening to tell him he had finally found a decent lead on a bounty he'd selected. Prowl grudgingly unfolded from his lotus pose and followed the old hunter to the console in the workshop. A picture of a violet and gold femme was on the screen. She had a small but powerful-looking frame, and a malevolent stare. Prowl frowned at the painted-over brand on the centre of her chest.

“Designation Whipcord,” Lockdown said. “We're gonna need to take a couple space bridge jumps if we wanna catch up with Starscream, and those ain't usually free these days. This chick should be our ticket out of here.”

“And after Starscream,” Prowl said with a grim smile. “Online or off?”

Lockdown leaned over him and scrolled down the page. “Eh. Doesn't matter.”

Prowl turned his head. Lockdown's chassis was pressed against his back, and he was standing far too close. Lockdown seemed to realise this in that same moment, but instead of moving away he only leered at him.

Prowl growled and stepped away. “Online,” he said firmly. “Let's get started.”

Lockdown nodded. “Get your gear ready, then. No better time t'start than now.” He turned away, to start to peruse the trophy racks. The mods he kept were for more than show, after all – each weapon and gadget he kept because it was both unique and useful. Rare things that would cost him, or else a particularly unusual contraption he could see getting him out of some tight spot one day.

As if reading his mind, Prowl said, “I thought you only did this for the mods.” Lockdown glanced over his shoulder. Prowl was adjusting his fold-away shield, testing that it would expand as quickly as his reflexes demanded. He was also watching Lockdown.

“Mods are nice, sure,” Lockdown said. Prowl knew it was an understatement. He had tasted that particular addiction first hand. “But they won't fill your tank. Ain't no space port this side o' Cybertron that'll accept spare parts instead of cold hard creds.”

“Hmm. So where's the mark?” Prowl put his shield away and took Lockdown's hand-held from the table. He reviewed the maps.

“You sure you're up to this, kid?”

Prowl looked at him and raised a brow. “I was before.”

Lockdown chuckled, remembering their brief partnership on Earth. He wondered if Prowl had the mettle to go through with a hunt to the end this time. “Sure. Before you had a crisis o' conscience. Do that today and it'll get us both killed.” If Prowl didn't turn on Lockdown himself when he realised all that this hunt would involve.

Prowl shook his head at him. “Doubtful,” was all he said.

*****

They found Whipcord's trail deep in a run-down area of town. It seemed she had been hiding out, but as soon as she heard the roar of Lockdown's engines she turned tail and bolted. Lockdown had synchronised both his and Prowl's sensors to the _Death's Head_ 's more sophisticated tracking system, and Prowl brought Whipcord's signal up on his HUD and tracked it. He streaked after the fleeing signal, while Lockdown peeled off and disappeared down a side street. Prowl knew the plan – Lockdown had made a point of drumming it into him on the drive there. He had little taste for the hunter's tactics, but he understood the necessity. For himself, he hoped to end the job cleanly and with as little violence as possible.

He raced after Whipcord's beacon in altmode, and appreciated whatever upgrades Lockdown had made to his engines while he had been absent from his shell. Whipcord handled pretty well for such a boxy little off-roader. Prowl kept up, kept as close as he could, and hounded her around twists and turns, through one neighbourhood and then another. He drove her in the direction he wanted.

Lockdown's trap was a simple stinger. Whipcord's tires blew and she screamed, skidded, and flipped over in a crash of screeching metal and shattered glass. She transformed before she fell and slid a long way until she finally rolled to a halt in the lee of a darkened building.

Whipcord wasn't a large bot, and her altmode was sturdy, but not very obviously Decepticon. The crest on her chest-plates was obscured much like Lockdown's was, and looked newly painted-over. The black was still glossy. Prowl hesitated at the incongruity of that, and it was almost his downfall. Whipcord was on her feet and had a plasma blaster in her hand. She fired before Prowl could move to stop her. The first bolt caught his shoulder and exploded in exquisite, stinging pain. He dodged the second, and she didn't hit him again. He dropped and leapt aside, rolling and coming up armed. His energy blade shone in the rose-tinted dusk. He had her cornered. Lockdown had chosen this spot with care.

She was trying to drive him back with her blaster fire. He deflected the shots he couldn't dodge with his shield, and crouched in readiness, waiting for an opportunity to strike. His processor was remarkably calm. Whipcord was nothing compared to the mech he had killed in the arena. She was a little taller than Prowl, maybe almost Optimus's height, and strongly built, but Prowl was a patient mech – he would find her weakness and strike with precision and speed.

Lockdown's shadow appeared on the top of the building behind her. Distracted, she glanced up. Prowl darted in. His blade was drawn, and he had a new set of stasis cuffs in his other hand.

He got one side of the cuffs on her wrist before the butt of her blaster hit him in the jaw. Her foot slammed into his midsection. He stumbled, and recovered in an astrosecond, but she had the gun to his head. He only had an instant to react. His blade swept up in a smooth, quick arc. The gun fired.

The angle was a fraction wrong, and Prowl got away with a mildly singed helm alone. Whipcord's arm fell to the ground and energon flowed. Prowl's blade sizzled.

Lockdown fired his net gun, and their prey was instantly wrapped in a web of tight tapes. Whipcord screamed and fell writhing to the floor. Prowl realised with a peculiar detachment that she had been screaming ever since his blade cut through her arm. He swallowed and stepped back.

She lay, shivering and twisting, on the ground. Lockdown jumped down from the building, landing heavily. He crouched and did something to the back of Whipcord's neck. She stilled, her optics dimmed, and she went quiet.

Prowl took a deep, slow breath. There was a ringing in his audios.

“...Is she offline?” he said.

“Nah.” Lockdown stood up and slung the femme over his spiked shoulder. “Just in stasis. You did say _online_ , didn't you?”

Prowl nodded and let Lockdown's sarcasm fly over his head. He looked down. “...Do we need that?”

“Leave it,” Lockdown said with a dark chuckle. “I'll patch her enough to keep her online, then keep her in stasis until we can make the hand over.” He started to walk away. Prowl dazedly sheathed his weapon. Leaving the severed limb on the ground felt wrong, but he couldn't pick it up. What could he do, put it on Lockdown's trophy shelf? No. He shook himself and followed the hunter.

“We're going to Cybertron?”he said. He felt numb and stupid.

Lockdown laughed. “What? No, we're going to a drop-off point so this glitch's masters can take her off our hands. And we can get paid.”

*****

One space port was very like another. Such was what Lockdown told him, anyway. Prowl hadn't had much experience in such matters. His youth he had spent on Cybertron, and then, after Yoketron's death, Prowl had sought only a quiet place to live out his days in meditation and guilt. The busy hum of a space port had not been on his list of places to visit. Indeed, Arqa-Dia was not a place with an atmosphere conducive to tranquillity or inner peace. Lockdown seemed happy enough, though.

They had had to go a little out of their way. From Andala they had travelled to some other slaving planet, just to rendezvous with those who had promised to pay up for Whipcord's bounty. Prowl had paid as little attention as possible to the negotiations.

Once they disembarked and made their way into the station's hub, Prowl paused and looked upward. The floor they were on was a broad mezzanine surrounding a central shaft that seemed to stretch the depth of the station. Above, a vast glass dome arced over the whole atrium. Or at least, it should have – a wide, ragged hole showed where something had punched through and shattered the extravagantly decorative glass. A forcefield shimmered underneath, the only barrier between the station and open space. Beyond, a massive pink-toned nebula swirled, dotted with brilliant stars. Prowl felt a moment of awe as he stared up at the curves of stars spiralling away like petals. This, at least, was a source of peace and wonder in a confusing and messed-up universe.

Lockdown jostled him, and Prowl came out of his peaceful reverie with a frown.

“See that?” Lockdown said, pointing up with his hook. “Courtesy of our quarry, I hear. Don't go fallin' out.” Prowl gave him an unimpressed look. “I'm gonna find a bar,” Lockdown said.

Prowl sighed and trailed after Lockdown for a few steps. “I'll meet you in a few joors, then. I'm going to explore,” he said. He could just imagine the kind of rowdy dive Lockdown would choose to haunt, and his distaste kept him away.

Lockdown shrugged. “All right. I'll save a cup of energon tea for ya. Just be careful.”

Prowl shook his head and turned away. He didn't need Lockdown's concern. They parted ways, and Prowl lingered in the atrium until he was sure Lockdown was out of sight. Then he turned back toward the dock.

This was his chance to escape. He moved swiftly and with a purpose back to the dockside, through the weaving crowds – Cybertronians selling exotic fuels, reptilian organics unloading cargo, beautiful pleasure-models looking for early customers – and back to the _Death's Head_.

The ship was locked. Prowl cursed and paced on the catwalk. He could sneak in as he had before, but Primus only knew what other security the hunter had put in place. When Prowl had stowed-away before, the ship had been wide open, and Lockdown on board.

He folded his arms and counted his options. He could take his chances with the _Death's Head_ 's security, or he could try to buy passage on some other vessel. He had the money from the arena in his subspace. He didn't know if it would be enough, but it might get him far enough away from Lockdown that he could hitch-hike or work the rest of the way to Cybertron. His other option was to find an easier ship to sneak onto...

He lifted his head, and his optics found a ship he hadn't seen before. Clumsily docked in one of the rear spaces, it looked more like junkyard scrap than a functioning space-craft. He didn't see any bots coming or going from it; it looked deserted. Prowl glanced around. His curiosity got the better of him, and he slipped through the shadows at the edges of the catwalks until he reached the junk ship's airlock. The ramp was still down, and Prowl crept hastily up it to the hatch. The hatch didn't open, but he cast his optics upward. The surface of the hull was uneven. He took a few steps back, and then ran and leapt. His boosters carried him up, over a railing, and onto the ship's flight deck.

A creeping sense of foreboding made Prowl's sensornet prickle. Still, he went unchallenged as he crossed the deck to a set of blast doors. They opened at a touch, revealing a crude secondary airlock. The outer doors swung closed as he stepped inside, leaving him in thick darkness. Prowl swallowed and checked that all his weapons were still online and functional; he wasn't going back now.

The inner doors opened, and Prowl stepped into a dark hallway. The floor was a rough metal grille, the walls covered with bare pipework. Prowl moved slowly, his steps stealthy and slow.

Even with all his caution, he almost tripped over the first body. He stepped back, and then held very still. The frame sprawled on the floor before him was peppered with burnt holes from rapid laser fire. He crouched down. It had been a femme once. A medic, by the tools that had scattered from her tool-belt when she fell.

He looked up and stared into the muzzle of a gun-turret mounted near the ceiling several paces ahead. He stayed as still as stone, and when no shots came, he experimentally eased to the side. The gun tracked him, but didn't fire.

He ran a cursory scan for life-forms. The results were inconclusive.

He took a deep breath. Whatever had happened here, it had happened some time ago. The energon on the floor was dark and long-dried. He might as well try and find his way to the bridge to see if the craft was space-worthy, and if he might be capable of piloting it.

He descended two floors, then back up a set of stairs again, before he ran into the first drone. The robotic figure lurched past a junction just ahead of Prowl, its blank optics unseeing. Prowl reached the junction and peered after it. He tuned his sensors, based on the drone's peculiar signal, and found a whole cluster of the creatures, bustling around the ship's decks like so many busy, mindless insecticons. Spark knew what they were doing. It was clear enough that this had once been a working salvage ship, but the furnaces had long gone out, the crew dead or gone. Prowl was rapidly losing interest in this plan of his – using the crystals from Andala to buy a ticket on a commercial transport was looking better every astrosecond, even if it would take every cred he had.

He chose the path that led in the opposite direction to the one the drone had followed. The corridor sloped upward, and broadened. He should be approaching the command deck now, he thought. Each time he passed a turret his sensornet rippled with unease. He paused before he reached the command deck doors. Even in the sickly shadows he could see the hunched shape huddled on the floor before the buckled, warped doors. The bridge beyond was dark.

Prowl took a step back. This wasn't a good plan. He had hoped to find some old ship with lax security he could sneak onto and ride to the next space-bridge; he hadn't intended to wander into some eerie horror story. This was a ghost ship, not an escape route.

Just as he was about to turn, his newly fine-tuned sensors sent a chill of alarm down his spinal strut. Amid the confused bustle of the drones, there was one other life-sign on the ship. It was behind him.

He turned quickly and drew his energy-blade in the same motion. The hallway behind him was empty shadows. Prowl held still, deep in a cyberninja's crouch, his whole frame taut and ready.

The attack came from above. Something dropped onto him, snarling and kicking like a predacon. Prowl rolled backward, kicked, and put distance between himself and the growling creature. He got a brief look at his attacker – built like a mech, slim and grey, but hunched and covered with old energon. The mech was missing a lower mandible, and instead sported an array of knife-like teeth, row upon row, bristling from the top jaw. Prowl held his blade back, and raised his other hand between them, palm out in a gesture of peace. He never once relaxed his stance.

“I don't want to fight you,” he said.

The mech didn't seem to share the sentiment. He growled in displeasure, and bunched his legs beneath him, preparing to attack again. Prowl guessed whoever the mech was, he had moved into the ghost ship, and Prowl had just wandered into his territory. When the mech lunged forward, Prowl leapt over him, rolled when he hit the floor, and then transformed and drove. He didn't have the tank for more bloodshed after Whipcord; this creature could keep his ship, he decided.

He almost got lost in the ship's dark tunnels, but eventually he burst from the airlock onto the flight deck. He transformed, and slammed the doors shut behind him. He was venting hard. He checked his chronometer, and startled at how much time had passed. A quick glance around the docks showed that the down-shift had changed the atmosphere noticeably. It was quiet, and dark, and somehow every shadow seemed to hide some menacing possibility. Prowl decided their would be better opportunities for escape. For now, he jumped down from the ship, and sped in altmode toward the atrium where he had separated from Lockdown. The money from Whipcord's bounty would buy him passage anywhere he wanted.

*****

He tracked Lockdown's signal to a smoky refuelling hole in one of the station's sub levels. The moment Prowl took his seat beside the old hunter, Lockdown flicked his claw and a serving mech appeared with a fresh pot of energon tea and one cube-shaped cup.

Prowl sat, still tense with nervous energy from his misadventure on the salvage ship. He gave Lockdown a confused look but said nothing. Lockdown grinned and poured the tea.

“Have I missed much?” Prowl eventually said. He took his first sip of the tea, and immediately felt his frame start to relax. The flavour was mild, a little weak, but welcome after subsisting on oil and whatever rot Lockdown called energon from the _Death's Head_ 's stores.

“Not that you'd enjoy,” Lockdown said. He nodded to the corner of the dark, smoky room, where a small stage rose above the floor. There was a pole rising from the stage to the ceiling, and a sleek, small bike alt danced lithely to a slow, electronic groove. Prowl's plating prickled in discomfort. The bot was painted in ethereal pale gold and silvery white, with bright golden optics. He couldn't tell, from a glance, whether it was a mech or a femme. Lockdown seemed entranced. Prowl gave a short sigh and returned his concentration to his tea.

“So, when do we make the hand over?” Prowl asked, after several kliks of silence between them. The slow beat had changed, but the same slinky tone persisted. He gazed idly in the direction of the dancing bot. The face had a slight masculine sharpness, and the frame, while curvy, looked compact and strong. The movements were oddly hypnotic, almost meditative.

Lockdown didn't tear his optics away. “Tomorrow, in some fancy area. I have the co-ordinates. Should be a simple switch and go.”

“And this will be enough to get us to Decepticon territory?” The two of them had discussed possible routes for their quarry to take. Starscream alone would be unpredictable, perhaps reckless, but they had to assume that he and Megatron had remained together after their escape. They both knew enough about Megatron to guess _his_ intentions. He wouldn't be a mech to slip away into anonymity and begin a new life. He would go on a quest to seek out his fallen army. Lockdown assured Prowl this was a fool's errand, but that the old warlord had never been one to accept defeat, whatever the cost. The first place to hunt for a scent, then, was not Akeron, the prison they had left behind, but Pyrovar. New Kaon. Once the primary refugee camp for Decepticon exiles, Lockdown didn't know much about the place now except that he tried to avoid going out that far. “No bounties out there 'cept the most desperate ones,” he had said.

Prowl pulled himself back into the here and now when Lockdown replied, “It'll get us as far as the Commonwealth. If we want a chance of catching Starscream, we'll need to make a few transwarp jumps. That means more cash. An' that means more hunts.” Lockdown looked down at him. Prowl bristled under his scrutiny, but kept his optics straight ahead. The dancer swayed and twirled slowly, gracefully. For a moment his optics seemed to lock with Prowl's. “You sure you're gonna be able to handle it?”

Prowl wasn't sure. Already his fuel tank was reacting to the memory of Whipcord's arm lying severed on the floor, and the tea seemed to churn around inside him. He controlled himself, and said coolly, “I handled it today, didn't I?”

Lockdown chuckled. He seemed genuinely pleased with his protégé’s progress. Prowl was sure that was how he saw it. He curled his lip in disgust, while at the same time something a little like pride stirred in the far, deep recesses of his processor.

“You sure did. Now all we gotta do is hunt and trade our way through the Commonwealth, catch a transwarp beam here and there, and we'll be out in the once great Decepticon Empire before you know it.”

“Shouldn't you keep your volume down?” Prowl said.

Lockdown shrugged. “Why? Autobots need bounty hunters just as much as 'Cons ever did. They just don't pay as well. Don't worry, kid, we'll stay on the right side o' the law. Least till we come out the other side of the Autobots' territories.”

Prowl nodded. “...Thank you.” Lockdown's attention was on the dancer once more. Prowl finished his tea in silence and got up. “I'll see you back on the ship.”

*****

Prowl spent the remainder of the down-shift in a fitful recharge. He awoke early the next morning, used the ship's only set of wash racks – he was grateful Lockdown no longer locked him in his room – and returned to his own quarters to run through some basic katas.

It was a couple of joors later when Prowl's sensors pinged. He had tuned his sensors to the hunter's signal months ago as a means of self-protection, but now it simply let him know Lockdown was finally up and awake. Prowl stretched, and then followed the ping to join Lockdown in his workshop.

He leaned against a tilted up repair berth and folded his arms. “Out all night?” he said.

Lockdown was sprawled in his usual chair by the big screen. He cast Prowl a smirking look.

“What's it to you?”

Prowl took a breath in and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said shortly. “Of course. What time is the hand over?”

“Primus, you really know how to go on,” Lockdown groaned. “Not until 16:00 hours. We got all day to play.”

“Play?”

“Yeah, play. It's a space port, what do you think you're meant to do all day? You refuel the ship, stock up your supplies, an' then you get to amuse yourself until it's time to leave. Anything you want, I guarantee you can find it in a place like this.”

“What I want cannot be found in a place like this,” Prowl replied coldly.

Lockdown's optics focused on him. “And what _is_ it you want? Huh, Prowl?” Prowl met his stare. He frowned but didn't reply. “You don't like travellin' with me? Well here's some news for ya, kid: you don't have to.”

Prowl folded his arms and looked away with a short, huffed sigh. The memory of the night before made him uneasy; as if Lockdown knew about his failure somehow.

“I'm serious,” Lockdown went on, speaking more levelly now. “I can leave. You can stay here, or hop on the next transport toward the Commonwealth. Go to Cybertron. Go back to Earth. I don't care.”

“You cared enough to take me from my tomb,” Prowl spat.

“Good thing I did, too, don't you think?” Lockdown growled. “Or would you rather have onlined there, all alone and with nothing to eat but the dead?”

Prowl shivered and turned his back on the hunter. Disgust and outrage roiled in his tank, and his processor reeled with the knowledge that Lockdown was right. In spite of it all, he was slagging right.

“That doesn't make what you did _right_ ,” he said, his voice low.

“Maybe not. D'you think I'm the kinda bot that cares about wrong and right?” He stood and stepped close to Prowl. His posture, combined with his height and bulk, was a silent threat. The hunter didn't touch Prowl, but simply standing so close made Prowl's sensornet crackle. The younger bot felt his heat against him, felt the fiery brush of his energy field.

“...No,” Prowl said, after a drawn out silence. He _knew_ that. He _knew_ Lockdown was a bad mech. Travelling together toward a shared goal – Lockdown his bounty and Prowl, hopefully, the answers to his questions – had half blinded him to the truth of the mech he was sharing a ship with. Suddenly it was as if a light had been switched on, sweeping away the darkness of his denial and showing him the truth he had always known. Lockdown was the reason for all his pain, all his disgrace. Lockdown was the mech who had betrayed and murdered Yoketron, and left Prowl's life in ruins. No simple deal was enough to make that truth go away. Prowl's hands clenched into fists, and his blade felt heavy in its sheath. He could end this here and now. He could take his vengeance and make things right. He could still find Starscream, take the _Death's Head_ and ride for Cybertron or New Kaon or wherever his lost spark guided him.

Lockdown leaned down. Prowl felt his breath on the side of his helm. His frame tensed, ready to strike, ready to kill. He'd already killed one bot, and maimed another. It would be _easy_ –

He made a small, quiet sound of pain, deep in his throat. The space where his spark should be seemed to yawn dark and empty within him. He relaxed his hands, and his shoulders slumped. He couldn't do it.

“Perhaps it would have been better to leave me there,” he said.

“...What?”

Prowl turned his head just slightly, enough to meet Lockdown's optics. The look he gave him was flat and withdrawn. “I've returned, but at what cost? I sacrificed my spark to save my friends and the city. I get a thousand stellar cycles of peaceful sleep, oneness with the Well of All Sparks. My death was not in vain.” He shook his head, and his vocals took on a sour note. “Then one day I just wake up, just like that. Just an extended stasis nap?”

He stepped away. He picked up a gauntlet from one of the trophy shelves, put it down again. He turned back to Lockdown.

“I don't even know if I'm really a mech any more. I died a hero, but now...” He finished in a whisper, “Now I'm a killer...”

Lockdown sighed and passed his hand over his optics. “Kid, I really ain't qualified to deal with your existential crises. So you died, an' you came back. You already got to play the hero. Great – now you can kick back. Relax. The hardest part is over.”

“Relax?”

Lockdown shrugged expansively. “Why not? You did your job. Saved the city or whatever the slag they put on your tomb stone. Now's your chance to really _live_.”

“Is this what you call living?” Prowl cried. “Drifting from slave markets to drink-drenched space ports, killing and stealing and 'facing your way to the Pit?”

“Sure beats whatever the slag you've been doing,” Lockdown replied. “I sure as slag am havin' more fun.”

Prowl gave a long sigh of defeat. Fun? What place did that have in his journey? He was a cyberninja, his quest had been to seek peace and oneness with the Allspark and guard over Cybertron's future. Now, he felt like the universe had been turned on its head. Ever since he had awoken in the darkness of the workshop, disoriented and alone, nothing had been right.

Maybe he had never come back at all. Maybe he was still dead and cold, and this was the Pit.

He looked at Lockdown again. “...Maybe so,” was all he said. He waved his hand in a dismissive goodbye. “I'm going to clean up. Comm me when you're heading out for the hand over.” He left the workshop without another word. He hadn't felt so hollow since Yoketron died.

*****

There were still hours before the exchange was to take place. Prowl wandered in an unhappy daze, and his steps took him gradually deeper into the ship, to visit Whipcord. Lockdown had stowed her in the hold like cargo. He didn't know quite why he went, but he had an uneasy feeling he went to ask her forgiveness.

She was trussed onto a pallet, her optics grey and blank. Lockdown had told him she was only in an induced stasis, but the appearance was unsettling nonetheless. He had wanted to talk to her, to ask what she did to earn the price on her head. He had wanted to be justified in his hunting of her.

Instead his questions fell on deaf audios, and her optics remained dark. She was dead to the world. Prowl almost wished that he was too.

With a sigh of defeat, he sank down onto the floor beside Whipcord's pallet. He crossed his legs, shuttered his optics, and tried to still his mind.

It was some joors later that he returned to full alertness. He didn't so much jolt out of his meditative state, as slowly become aware of a presence within the hold other than himself and Whipcord. He remained as he was, and kept his optics dimmed. His sensors didn't pick up an energy signal, but he trusted himself enough not to rely on that. Silently, he tracked the stranger's movement through the spacious, dark hold – for as the astroseconds passed, he became more and more sure that there was a stranger in there with him. His exostructure prickled in apprehension, at once imagining the fanged monster from the ghost ship had followed him back somehow, but he schooled himself to stillness. Tiny sounds gave the intruder away. Prowl's mind was clear and sharp following his meditation, and he opened it now, just as Jazz had once taught him to do. His awareness unfolded, and he became cognisant to the flow of energy around him, and all the tiny nuances and shifts within it. Jazz's long-ago words of instruction came back to him as an instinctive focusing, and he gasped as in a moment of pure clarity he sensed the stranger's spark.

He was closer than Prowl had thought. At Prowl's gasp, the intruder attacked.

Prowl was ready for him. He snapped his battle-mask into place, and moved at the last moment. He caught the other bot's charge and turned it aside. The mech arced past him, but instead of hitting the floor he rolled and sprang back up. Prowl was on his feet in time to lean away from his swinging fist. Prowl's optics onlined and he took in his assailant in a swift and critical glance. In that same moment his focus was disrupted, and he lost some of his spark-awareness.

The mech that attacked him now was the dancer from the bar. His golden optics flared as he moved into a flurry of attacks that left Prowl no time to consider the strangeness of this encounter, nor to centre himself enough to sense his enemy further. Prowl blocked each of the graceful mech's strikes, and realised quickly that this was no ordinary mech he faced. The bot moved with a dancer's grace, but it was a cyberninja's training, or at least some kin to it, that lent him his skill and precision. Prowl fought defensively at first, but when it became clear the stranger meant to kill him, his mind hardened. He recalled the desperation of the arena, and his mind sharpened once more into the same ruthless clarity and focus that had saved him then.

The mech sensed the shift of Prowl's aggression. He gave ground for a moment. Prowl pressed him. The mech snarled, but his anger and frustration gave Prowl the advantage. Prowl spun, and his kick knocked the mech off his feet. Prowl's blade was out as he fell upon the golden-eyed mech. His hand closed around the bot's throat. He brought his blade up, but a sudden searing pain bit into his side. The golden-eyed mech tossed his knife away and tried to push Prowl off him. Prowl hissed. He wasn't so dizzied by pain that he would be so easily flung aside. He raised his blade and thrust it through the other mech's shoulder, pinning him to the floor. He kept his other hand around the bot's throat.

Through bared teeth, he demanded, “Who are you?”

The mech fought him still, scratching and squirming. Prowl's anger cooled, and he twisted his blade. The other mech gasped and stilled, his intakes coming shallowly and fast. Prowl repeated his question.

“Go on then,” the mech whispered hoarsely. “Kill me.” Prowl narrowed his optics. He didn't like this, he didn't like the situation he had been forced into, and he didn't like the side of himself that had made it possible to best this opponent and likewise keep him brutally pinned. But it was this or die. The arena duel Lockdown had forced him into had taught him that much – that sometimes survival demanded cruelty. He gave the blade another twist. The mech gasped and screwed his optics shut at the pain. Prowl hesitated, caught in a terrible limbo of indecision.

“I never wanted to fight you,” Prowl said. It was more an accusation than an apology. “I have no wish to kill you.”

“And I never intended to fight you either,” the mech said, his vocals hoarse. Prowl thought he recognised a Towers accent. “I thought you would stay with your partner. I could have taken her and you never would have even seen me.”

“He's not my partner,” Prowl growled distractedly. “...And I'm not a killer. Tell me your name.”

The golden-eyed mech sneered. “Ghost,” he said, and faded away.

It took Prowl a beat to understand. His blade hissed as the energon on it burned away. Prowl stared at the energon-smeared floor where Ghost had lain. He stood, and pushed a toe through the mess. Ghost was gone.

Prowl tried to calm himself and reach out with his Allspark sense. He felt Ghost's spark close-by, and a moment later he realised the truth. The mech had some kind of phase-shifting device that had allowed him to pass through the floor of the hold. He would be somewhere in the chambers beneath, now. Prowl racked his processor as to what was down there, but he didn't know the _Death's Head_ well. The engines, he presumed.

He sheathed his blade and cast a glance at Whipcord. She slumbered on, as if nothing had occurred at all. If Prowl pursued Ghost into the labyrinth of the ship's engine rooms and sub-holds, there was nothing to stop the mech creeping past him and back into this room. If he was a rival hunter, as Prowl suspected he was, he would be free to grab Whipcord, flee, and claim the bounty for himself, leaving Prowl lost below. And yet he could hardly remain where he was and leave Ghost to run free around the ship.

He retracted his mask and sighed. He opened up his comm-line and said, “Lockdown. Come to the hold. We have a problem.”

*****

Prowl remained wary and on guard until Lockdown appeared. The old mech burst into the hold with his optics blazing. His gaze swept to Whipcord first, and then to Prowl with a questioning look.

Prowl didn't waste time mincing words. “There is an intruder aboard the ship. I suspect he is here for her. He fought me, but... he got away.” Lockdown looked unimpressed at the awkwardness of Prowl's explanation. Irritably, Prowl added, “He has some kind of phase-shifter, be wary. I had him pinned but he used it to escape me.”

At the mention of the phase-shifter, Lockdown's optics lit up. “Phase-shifter? That's an expensive bit o' tech. You sure?” Prowl nodded. Lockdown grinned. “I'm sure that'd look real pretty on my trophy shelf.”

“Tsk.” Prowl didn't bother to hide his disgust, but at least Lockdown was willing to help hunt down the mech who would steal their prisoner if he could. “We should hurry. One of us should stay here to guard Whipcord, otherwise Ghost could double-back and take her while we search for him. There's something dampening his signal, but I think I can track him.”

Lockdown raised a brow at him. “So you want me to stay here and play guard dog? Oh no. We hunt together, Prowl.” He leaned down and broke the bonds fastening Whipcord to the pallet. She remained in stasis as he lifted her onto his shoulder. Her frame was sickeningly limp in the big mech's grip. “This glitch wants our bounty? He's gonna have to come to us to get it.”

Prowl cycled a deep breath and then nodded. He closed his optics and tried to reach out to find the essence of Ghost's spark. Before he could centre himself enough to succeed, Lockdown grabbed his arm. Prowl's optics snapped open and he tried to wrench himself free, but Lockdown snarled, “You're hurt.”

“What?” Prowl stilled. He followed Lockdown's optics. A small wound in his side was bleeding a sluggish stream of energon, glowing dully. Prowl regarded it with detached surprise. He had forgotten Ghost's knife had caught him. He frowned. He felt pain, but no sense of urgency or danger. The most pressing error scrolling across his HUD seemed to relate to the loss of fuel.

Lockdown didn't seem to share Prowl's disinterest. “What happened? Why didn't you tell me the glitch got the drop on you?”

Prowl shook his head. He touched an area near the wound, and his fingers came away sticky with energon. “It's just a scratch,” he said.

Lockdown scowled at him, but he let it rest. Prowl wondered if it was genuine concern for his wellbeing, or if the hunter was more distressed over his trophy being damaged. Prowl already knew Lockdown had gone to some lengths to restore his frame to the pristine condition he had awoken in. It was something Prowl tried not to think about, lest it make his exostructure crawl. The hunter adjusted Whipcord's weight on his shoulder.

“Fine, have it your way,” Lockdown said. “C'mon.”

They exited the hold, and Prowl followed Lockdown into a dark passage that led down into the engine rooms below. The Death's Head was no warship, but it wasn't a small vessel either. Prowl swallowed his pride and focused on stilling his mind and reaching out to sense Ghost's presence. The corridor became narrower, and Prowl was forced to creep behind Lockdown's bulk as they descended. He kept his sensors alert and his mind open. The throb of the engines became a reverberation deep within Prowl's frame, so that he felt them as much as he heard them.

As Lockdown ducked beneath a steaming pipe, and Prowl lithely followed, Prowl spoke the thought that had been nagging him for some minutes. “Aren't you concerned he could be luring us into an ambush?”

Lockdown only laughed at his concern. “You said it was one mech. And look,” he pointed down with his hook. Prowl's visor narrowed. There were small drops and smears of energon on the floor. Lockdown followed the easy trail around a sharp corner and between two banks of machinery. “Your handiwork, I'm guessin'.” There was a note of pride in Lockdown's vocals.

Prowl felt an uncomfortable combination of guilt and pleasure at the unspoken praise as much as at the truth of what he had done. How easy it had been for him to maim yet another mech in the name of his own survival. He wanted to blame Lockdown – if he hadn't stolen him from his tomb, if he hadn't persuaded him to join him in his trade... but Prowl had already been down that road, and knew that the only one he could blame for his own actions was himself.

Ghost attacked just as they were navigating a cramped turn from the narrow walkway into an even more awkward vent shaft. Prowl sensed him enough to call a warning to Lockdown a moment before the golden-eyed mech burst through the wall and fell upon him. Ghost's target was clear – he made a grab for Whipcord, and when Lockdown swiped his hook he tried to parry with a pair of knives. The quarters were too tight for Prowl to move in on him. Lockdown snarled and blocked his quick, darting attacks, though he was hampered by both the lack of space and by holding onto Whipcord's dead weight. Ghost phased through the close walls as though they weren't there, which gave him more room to dance away from each of Lockdown's swipes and kicks. Prowl crouched and watched, waiting for his moment. Ghost thought to get behind Lockdown in another attempt to shake him of his burden, and Prowl was ready.

He didn't waste time trading blows, nor did he unsheath his blade. His hand darted out and grabbed Ghost's wrist. In the same beat he whirled the mech around, almost as if he were joining in his dance, and into a simple grip. He twisted Ghost's arm behind him and slammed him into the wall. Ghost was taken by surprise, perhaps the only thing that stopped him from phasing straight through.

“Cuffs!” Prowl snapped.

Lockdown gripped Whipcord and tossed Prowl a set. Prowl hadn't needed to guess the old hunter always carried a few pairs inside his subspace. He watched as Prowl forced Ghost into the cuffs, and Prowl sucked in a breath of relief when the cuffs' current stiffened and locked Ghost's frame before he could phase out of them. Ghost snarled and hissed, but he was bound, at least for now.

“Release me!” he demanded. Prowl noticed the energon that slicked most of his frame. He felt a sick jolt of guilt; the wound his blade had dealt looked terrible.

“Sure,” Lockdown said. “Right after I take that phase-shifter off your hands. You made a mistake comin' between me and a bounty, mech.”

Prowl glared at him in disapproval. “Let's just get him back upstairs,” he said stiffly. He wouldn't allow Lockdown to “salvage” Ghost's mods, no matter what the golden-eyed mech had done to either of them.

Returning both Whipcord and Ghost to the upper levels of the ship was an arduous task. Prowl carried Whipcord two-handed, while Ghost took up her place over Lockdown's shoulder. Prowl found that the femme was heavier than her compact frame suggested – or perhaps it was his own strength that had wasted.

They took their prisoners not to the hold, but to the workroom. Prowl followed Lockdown there full of trepidation, but remained silent as Lockdown strapped both bots to the metal slabs. Ghost had lapsed into resentful silence, and he glared daggers at Prowl as Lockdown moved around the workshop and secured Whipcord. They left the cuffs on Ghost, lest he slip free and attack again.

“How can you do this?” Ghost suddenly hissed. Prowl froze in the heat of his glare. Lockdown glanced over his shoulder.

“I won't let him harm you,” Prowl said. Lockdown snorted, but Prowl ignored him. He was confused when Ghost shook his head.

“I'm not afraid of him,” Ghost sneered. “You're an Autobot... I should know better, but I still dared to hope you would be better than this.” Prowl almost took a step back; the mech's clipped words felt like a slap. “You're truly content to ship her back to her masters and take creds for the pleasure?”

Prowl felt frozen by his own guilt and self-disgust. Lockdown saved him from his incriminating silence by slamming his hand down on the cot next to Ghost's head and snarling, “Job's a job, prettybot. You think you can make us a better offer, go ahead.” He leaned down, his face close to Ghost's. Bound by stasis cuffs and the cot's bindings, Ghost couldn't move away from that stare. Prowl was grudgingly impressed to see the smaller mech meet Lockdown's gaze.

“All right,” he said. “Whatever the bounty is on her, I'll double it.” At Lockdown's contemptuous snort, he hurried on, “All you have to do is deliver us to Whipcord's kin, instead of her former masters.”

Prowl stepped forward and spoke before Lockdown could refuse the deal. “What do you mean, her former masters? Lockdown, who offered this bounty?”

“What does it matter?” Lockdown snarled. He straightened, and paced around the workroom. “It's a legal job, like I fragging promised, and about the only bounty around here worth goin' after-”

“It matters to me,” Prowl said. He kept his vocals carefully quiet. He turned his attention to Ghost. “I thought you were a rival hunter, after the same bounty as us. But you're not, are you?”

Ghost's optics were disdainful as he said, “Of course not. I was looking for the femme, but for her sake, not my own. If you want me to trust you with any more, let me go. I won't attack you unless you move to strike me first.”

Prowl nodded, and he silenced Lockdown's outrage with an icy glare. The old hunter retreated to the back of the workroom and sank sullenly into his chair. Prowl let him lurk in the shadows there while he silently unfastened Ghost's restraints. He sensed Lockdown's burning red gaze on him, full of rebuke. When Ghost's cuffs came off, Prowl braced himself for the dancer's attack. No such attack came, but they watched each other warily as Prowl stepped back and Ghost sat up.

Ghost cast a quick, disdainful look at Lockdown before turning back to Prowl. “You can tell your guard dog he needn't glare like that. I've given you my word I won't hurt you.”

Prowl puzzled at that – not only the fact that he knew Lockdown's scowl was for him, not for Ghost, but also that Ghost felt in a position to reassure Prowl, when the opposite should be true. He made a mental note of both, if only as an indicator of the mech's arrogance. “Speak, then,” he said.

Ghost frowned and gestured to his wounded shoulder. “I'll talk while you repair this. But tell me first: do we have a deal?”

Prowl glanced past him to Lockdown. The hunter sneered and shrugged one shoulder. It seemed he had conceded control to Prowl for now – if only to make it clear that whatever befell them as a result of this foolishness was Prowl's own fault. Prowl decided to deal with him later.

To Ghost, he said, “We have a deal. I agree to return Whipcord to her kin, in return for double the bounty money.” He doubted there would be any money at all, but he held his glossa for Lockdown's sake. Ghost nodded his agreement. Prowl said, “Now, tell me where we're going to deliver the femme to safety?”

Ghost gave a brittle smile. “Cybertron,” he said.

Prowl gasped as Ghost made his wry pronouncement. Cybertron? Suddenly possibilities unfolded in front of him, options he had denied as impossible. He felt an empty aching in his spark-chamber at the thought of returning at last to his home-planet, perhaps even re-uniting with his friends... Across the work-tables, his optics met Lockdown's. The hunter rose.

“Cybertron? That Pit-blasted slaghole?” Lockdown crossed the workroom with heavy, thudding steps. He rolled his shoulder as he moved, and gave a bark of laughter. “Place is infested with Autobots. We'll be lucky if we can even land without getting' the Elite Guard crawlin' all over our hull.”

Both Prowl and Ghost scowled at him. “I thought you said this was a legal hunt,” Prowl said.

Lockdown grimaced. “It was. Right up until you decided we weren't gonna follow through with it. Now instead o' returnin' some lost property, we're gonna be helpin' a runaway slave escape, not to mention sneakin' unauthorised bots onto the homeworld. Think the Guard might look differently on that, Prowl.”

“Then we must get reach our destination without detection,” Ghost said, his vocals clipped and hard.

Prowl cocked his head. “What's the matter, Lockdown? Afraid of a few Autobots?”

Lockdown only scoffed and shook his head. He gestured to Whipcord with his hook. “Guess you'll be wanting to wake her up, then.”


	8. Rise

Megatron was trying to remember. It was almost time for his shift to end, and his mind was wandering. He shifted his energon-pick from his left hand to his right. His optics ached from the darkness, and his fans creaked, clogged up with dust as they were. 

To his left, a large, heavy mech continued to work the pink strata in the rock face. They'd been lucky that cycle and found a heavy deposit of rich ore, ready for the taking. Their masters would be pleased. 

He shouldered his pick as the horn sounded to signal the changing of shifts. The big mech followed him toward the recharge pods in the habitation block. He was hungry, but he had already had his ration for that day. He sighed and thanked the Allspark for what he had. 

Megatron handed in his tools and settled himself into his recharge pod, sealing the door and lying awkwardly on his back. He closed his eyes. He had only a few joors before his next shift began.

In the induced silence of the pod, recharge came blessedly quickly to his weary frame. And, in that solitary sleep, he dreamed. 

Megatron's dreams troubled him. They were filled with fire and torment, violent nightmares where the whole world was burning. In the dreams he was a soldier, or so he thought. His spark burned with unquenchable life and great purpose. He awoke with the feel of a sword in his hand and fire on his armour. In his mind there lingered an image, a vague sensory-impression of scarlet optics staring him down, leading him onward. 

It was time for his next shift. A scant few joors' sleep had left him just rested enough to function, but his processor was still sluggish. Haunted by his dreams, he moved in a daze to the mess to collect his daily fuel ration. He sat alone and brooded as he sipped his fuel. He spoke to no-one. He had no friends among his fellow miners, though he was on almost friendly terms with some. 

When it was time, he collected his pick and went back to work on the energon strata they had found the previous day.

He worked mechanically, while his mind stewed on the half-captured images of the night's dreaming. Even if they were just the workings of a fevered imagination, they gave him something to dwell on through the mindless drudgery of his work.

That night, he dreamed again. Inside his recharge pod he tossed and turned. In the dream, he stood atop a ruined building. The glass roof had been shattered, and rubble was strewn across the cracked floor. Beyond the walls a city burned. The sky was black and red, a storm on the way. He was fighting – he seemed unstoppable, and strength surged in his lines. By his side, another figure whirled. He heard exultant laughter, then a high battle cry. He tried to turn, to see the mech he fought beside, but all he caught were glimpses of crimson and silver.

An impact rocked the building, and Megatron stumbled to his knees. He looked up, and just before he woke he saw, finally, his comrade's face. Profound recognition shook his spark, and he teetered on the edge of a vital precipice.

The horn woke him from his recharge, and he stared up at the roof of his pod. Desperation gripped him as the dream fled; he tried to grasp the unravelling threads, but the clarity of the final image degraded until it was lost. He cried out and hit the side of the pod with his fists. He left dents. He would be whipped for that later.

He frowned, and the last traces of the dream retreated. He was back in the now, and he had to get his ration. 

He didn't dream again for more than a deca-cyle. His frame became so exhausted that he quickly sank into a recharge so deep he almost didn't wake when the horn sounded. His mind freed from the echoes of his visions, his days returned to some form of normality. He found himself working beside the big mech each shift – they must have been assigned to the same unit. He didn't remember. He sought refuge from his doubts in the easy and reassuring routine of his days and nights. He rose at the horn, he ate his ration, he worked, he recharged. The solar cycles passed, one after another, each one the same as the last. He should have known peace, but always a creeping sense of unease remained in the depths of his spark, the reason for which he could not place. He put it down the lingering effect of his dreams, and told himself it would pass – that he would soon enough return to the uncomplicated peace he had known before the unsettling dreams came.

He was working the same deep strata late one solar cycle when something finally happened to put such self-deception to an end. A small mech from another unit was drilling a few mechanometres away from him. He was a lightweight model, not designed for heavy work – Megatron wondered what he was doing assigned to a mine at all – and he was working more slowly than his sharkticon overseer thought he should. Megatron frowned as an electro-whip cracked and filled the air with an ozone scent. The little mech fell to his knees as the whip stung his back, again and again. Megatron turned away.

He raised his pick to continue with his work. It wasn't the first time he'd seen such an incident, and now and then in his long years in the mine he had tasted the whip himself. It was commonplace enough. Still, as the small mech cried out again, something inside Megatron twisted, strained, and snapped. He turned back.

“Stop,” he growled at the sharkticon with the whip. It paused, only to gape in amazement at a worker talking out of turn. The whip buzzed, its current visible in crackling tongues of energy all along its length. Megatron tightened his hold on his pick.

The sharkticon snarled as Megatron stepped closer. “What did you say?” it hissed.

Megatron steeled himself. It was too late to apologise and back down now. Other bots were lowering their tools and stopping to watch.

“I said stop,” he said. He was surprised at the strength of his voice. “The mech is exhausted, and far too small to work that drill.”

The little mech was on all fours, staring up at Megatron in wonder and fright. Stripes of fresh pink latticed his back.

The sharkticon guard practically vibrated with rage. It raised the whip again.

“I said _stop_.” There was a dark menace in Megatron's vocals he hadn’t heard before. 

“I’ve heard enough,” the guard snarled. The whip flashed, and Megatron felt a white-hot pain across his chest. The whip had scored a raw line in his armour that glowed fiery orange. The guard raised its arm again. This time, when the whip came down, Megatron caught it. It burnt, but he grunted and wound its length around his hand as he advanced on the repulsive creature. A powerful rage surged into his spark, the like of which he didn’t recall ever feeling. His optics flashed and he bared his teeth in a feral growl. THen he was upon the guard, who was reaching for a blaster while trembling and chittering in panic. Megatron felt no mercy, only disgust, as he brought his pick down. 

Its point split the sharkticon’s pate, and the rotund creature fell. Megatron let go of the pick and it remained where it had lodged. Megatron shook the whip from his hand. His intakes were fast and raw. There was a profound silence in the mine. The little bot he had defended had backed up against the wall and was gazing up at him in terror. Megatron felt cold as he realised what he had done, how easily the murderous rage had come upon him. It had felt easy, even _natural_...

He looked at his hands and realised they were shaking. 

“There! That’s the one!”

He looked up and stared dumbly. More guards were coming toward him, armed with whips and shock-sticks. One of his fellow miners was leading them. Megatron felt a cold weight in his tank. The strange high had left him. 

His hands fell to his sides and he docilely let them take him. Stasis cuffs pinioned his wrists behind his back, and the sharp pain of several shock-sticks pushed him toward stasis. He fought it, clinging onto consciousness with grim tenacity. He heard snatches of barked dialogue – “reconditioning”, “malfunction”, “get that one out of here – what were you thinking?” – before his will crumbled and stasis claimed him.

*****

They kept him locked up for days. Megatron sat in the tiny cave of a cell and waited for them to come to deactivate him. 

They had deprived him of his usual fuel rations. He sat with his back to the wall on the dirty floor, his optics unfocused as his fuel-starved mind drifted. He slid in and out of recharge, barely aware of the transition. His dreams had returned, and even followed him into waking whilst his cell haunted his sleep. 

In his dream he was also trapped underground, the walls and ceiling dark and close, cutting him off from the sky. For some reason this bothered him in a way it never had in all his years in the mine. He was limping, and there was a distant pain in his leg. His armour was shiny with energon. There was someone with him, carrying him onward.

He stirred as heavy footsteps passed outside his prison. His spark constricted as he thought this would be the hour of his execution, but the footsteps passed him by. A phantom seemed to watch him from the dark corner of his cell, long wing-like shadows extending across the walls. He closed his optics again. 

Endless grey dunes, rolling like waves. He was crossing the desert, heading for black mountains on the horizon. He gazed up into the blue-white light of the illumination satellite high above. A black, winged shape flitted across it and cast quick shadows on the microsand beneath Megatron's feet. It darted on ahead, and Megatron struggled after it. Every time he thought he had caught up to it, the shape would flee – always just within his reach, always too far away. 

He followed where he was led, all the way to a shadowy pass between two shimmering mountain faces. A dark passage cut into the rock led to a cool sanctum, a stronghold within the mountains. He looked around for his guide but he was nowhere to be found. 

He awoke to the sound of a disturbance beyond his cell. Dull booms reverberated through the rock walls. Megatron frowned. What was happening? He turned his head toward the door, but the grim steel kept him isolated. 

There was an aching in his spark, and a sense of urgency – he was on the brink of something, and the sounds from beyond his cell door exacerbated the feeling. There was something in his dreams that was _almost_ in his grasp. He closed his optics and turned his thoughts inward. 

This time he searched with purpose. It took some time for his restless, unfocused thoughts to resolve, and when they did, the dream felt different – more lucid, more real. He was in a dark cavern, the silver-veined stone walls glittering and reflecting the golden light from a wide brazier before him. The room was in shadow, and the only space with any clarity in the dream-chamber was the area in front of him – the fire, and a long, black table reaching away into the darkness. 

A shadow fell across him. He became aware of a shape, a figure – wings like blades, and red optics he had seen before, in other dreams. They held a look of urgency.

The scent of incense filled Megatron's sensors, together with something sharper – burning metal. The stranger moved, and Megatron saw the dully glowing shapes on his wings. 

Megatron beseeched him with his optics. This mech was his guide through the desert, his comrade in arms, the one who had been calling him, carrying him on. To this place.

“Do you know what this is?” the winged mech said. His voice was smooth and sweet, with a tantalising darkness underneath. He gestured to the brazier, and Megatron looked into the flames. “Do you know why I called you here?”

Megatron raised his gaze back to the stranger's face. He _knew_ this mech. If only he would step forward so he could see him clearly. 

He didn't know the answer, but he steeled his jaw and nodded. “I'm ready,” he said. 

The mech moved forward into the firelight. Megatron saw an angular face, burning optics, and a sharp-toothed smile. Something inside him, some lost puzzle piece, clicked into place. He opened his mouth, and a name rolled from his glossa. “Starscream.”

The seeker stepped around the fire and raised a clawed hand. “It's time,” he said. He reached out and placed his hand on the centre of Megatron's chest. Megatron just registered the cool weight before Starscream's claws dug in. 

Instead of the pain of torn armour, he felt the pure, cleansing heat of a long-ago fire. 

He looked down, and saw the symbol revealed under Starscream's tearing claws. 

“Rise up,” Starscream said.

*****

Megatron awoke to the sounds of battle. He rose, and immediately the door to his cell bowed under the force of an explosion on the other side. 

Megatron swayed on his feet and blinked. His processor functioned, but he was bewildered, no longer sure what was dream and what was real. He was a miner, built and programmed on Torkulon, he had worked there for centuries. He was Megatron, leader of the Decepticons. These two truths warred in his processor until pain wracked him and he felt as if his head would split in two. He clutched the sides of his helm and cried out in agony. Something within his head shorted, and clarity suddenly crashed through him like a violent wave. His dream-vision of Starscream grinned in triumph.

The pain of remembering had forced him to his knees. He rose again now, his movements halting as if he were a frail old mech. He moved to the door. With each step he took, he delved into his newly recovered memories and tried to reconcile them to the false files that had been implanted in his memory core. He remembered crashing on an alien planet. He and Starscream had been captured. He remembered, too, working in the mines – he recalled the routine and the grind of centuries, and he couldn't yet determine how much of it had really happened. He looked down at his frame. Yellow and black stripes had been painted across his armour, almost obscuring his brand. He snarled in disgust and humiliation. 

His spark burned for vengeance as he reached the weakened door. He kicked it, twice, three times. On the fourth kick the hinges gave. He stepped out into a cloud of choking smoke. 

Figures rushed here and there through the black fog. He heard the roar of nearby fires, and the clamour of shouting voices. Megatron tried to wave the worst of the smoke away from his optics and intakes. His navigation system was scrambled, so he simply moved toward the loudest sounds of combat.

His steps became surer the closer he got to the source of the commotion. A sharkticon tried to scuttle past him, squealing in panic, but Megatron grabbed it by the back of its thick neck and slammed it into the wall. While it reeled and snarled, he took the creature's energon whip and pick. He left it there, flailing on its back like an overturned insect. 

Soon, the corridor opened up into a larger chamber. Flames licked up the pink-veined walls, and through the smoke Megatron saw the flickering haze of fire. A confrontation was taking place between Cybertronians and their sharkticon masters. Megatron quickly scanned the crowd, searching for the mech whose memory had pulled him back from oblivion. 

Starscream wasn't there.

He opened up his comms, but before he could pull up Starscream's frequency, one of the bots in the fray spotted him. She cried out, and a cheer rose from those fighting. They seemed to rally, and suddenly surged against the sharkticons in a renewed attack. A cluster of sharkticons spotted him also, and Megatron swiftly put both whip and pick to use. He fought with the miners in a brief and inelegant battle. They fought with picks and shovels or their bare fists. None of them had any proper weapons. Megatron wondered fleetingly how many of them had been captured and enslaved just as he had. 

When the last sharkticon fell, Megatron's vents were heaving with the strain the smoke put on them, and his armour was splattered with energon. He panted, and slowly lowered his weapons. Quiet had descended in the cave. He looked around.

The crowd of miners watched him with optics that blazed. Megatron felt the current, the revolutionary fervour that fired them. He felt himself the target of near-religious admiration, and suddenly the conflict made sense. His defence of the miner, the action which had resulted in his solitary incarceration, must have triggered a full-scale rebellion. Megatron judged it had likely been a long time coming.

One of the miners, a stocky femme with mismatched blue and green optics, stepped forward. From the way she stood, and the directness of her gaze, Megatron guessed she was a leader among them. Beneath the energon and grime, he saw the faded remnants of a red Autobot crest upon her chest. She shouldered her pick, wiped her other hand clean on her hip, and offered it to him. He clasped it firmly – it was a greeting between warriors, not the feeble and timid nods exchanged between the miner slaves that he remembered. She gave him a savage smile.

“Nice job, mech. Name's Tappet. Welcome to the revolution.”

Megatron snorted. He released Tappet's hand and looked around at the gathered would-be warriors. The chamber was still thick with smoke, and the fire was growing. 

“You should move. If the caves don't come down on their own, the Quintessons will destroy the entire mine just to be rid of you,” he said.

Tappet nodded. “The main passage is blocked off, and the elevator's blown. The secondary tunnels should still be open enough for us to force through, though. Once we're on the surface, we're free bots.” _Free to starve on a hostile planet, perhaps_ , Megatron thought. “What's your designation?”

Megatron started. It hadn't occurred to him that they would fail to recognise him. But then, his frame was still battered, and bore his old scars from Detroit together with new wounds. He was painted like a labour drone, and covered in filth. It pricked his pride that the Quintessons had taken not only his memories but further eroded his identity by robbing him of his proper appearance too.

“Megatron,” he said.

Tappet's face stilled, and her optics became round. All around him, he saw similar reactions, in varying degrees. Cries of shock or exclamations of triumph. Some bots sank to their knees. Megatron swallowed his humiliation at being seen in such a diminished state, and met Tappet's gaze squarely. She had not knelt, and Megatron felt no surprise. The spark of an Autobot pulsed within her chest, after all. Gravely, she nodded.

“We owe you our lives, then, Megatron,” she said. He saw fear vie with respect in her optics. “Your actions gave us back our minds. Will you help us gain our freedom, too?”

Megatron gave the group another look. Few were warriors. Most were simple labour models, others lightweight civilian builds. But those that knelt bore faded Decepticon brands. 

“Rise up,” he said, and the kneeling mechs stood. A shock of recognition jolted his spark a moment later, when he recognised a hulking mech rising to his feet in the back of the crowd. “Lugnut! Step forward.”

The bewildered crowd parted to let the behemoth mech through. Lugnut looked much battered, and three of his optics were cracked and dark. He moved at an uneven, limping shuffle, and gazed upon Megatron like a bot caught in a dream. He reached toward him with shaking hands, and fell again to his knees at Megatron's feet. Megatron sank down to join him, and placed a hand upon the big mech's helm. He recognised now the mech he had laboured beside for days, when they had worked as strangers drilling the same strata in the rock. He had been there that day, the day Megatron had begun this accidental rebellion. He had seen, and perhaps he had remembered.

“Master... Are you really here? O, glorious-” Lugnut's vocaliser crackled and gave out.

“Hush, Lugnut,” Megatron soothed. “My most loyal...”

“We should move soon,” Tappet said, intruding on their reunion. Reluctantly, Megatron looked up and nodded. 

“Make for the surface and find one of the Quintesson ships. They should be large enough to carry all of you,” he said. 

“What about you?” Some of the bots were already turning to leave. The Decepticons among them were more reluctant, but the situation was bad, and all knew they couldn't stay much longer. If Megatron knew Quintessons at all, it was only a matter of time before they set the entire facility to self-destruct.

“Wait for me. There is something I must do before I can leave this planet. Lugnut will come with me.”

Tappet gave a brisk nod. “We'll wait, but if the whole place looks like it's going to blow, you're on your own.” She turned away. She issued orders to the other bots with brisk competency, and within seconds they were moving out. They exited through a narrow side tunnel littered with rubble. As the last one of them filed out, the chamber rocked as somewhere a charge detonated. It had already begun.

Megatron leant his brow against Lugnut's bowed head. The big mech was shuddering, and his blunt claws pressed at Megatron's chest as though he were afraid they would pass right through him. 

“Yes, Lugnut,” Megatron murmured. He pressed his hands to either side of Lugnut's head. “I am real, I am here. I've come back to you. You have served me well.”

“I knew you would return... Master...”

“I know... I am sorry, Lugnut. Soon, we will leave this place. There is only one more task we must complete... Lugnut, do you know of a laboratory? A place the Quintessons use for their research. I was taken there, when I first came to this planet. Do you know how to get there?” Megatron cursed himself for a fool – he should have asked Tappet and the others how to find the lab. For it was the lab where he was sure he would find Starscream. It seemed like an age ago when they had been first separated. Megatron had obviously been taken down into the mines following his reprogramming. Starscream wasn't in the mine, so Megatron could only rely on the hope that the Quintessons had kept Starscream in the laboratory instead. He had no way of tracking Starscream's signal. The mech had no spark, and no Allspark shard to power him. Megatron would be searching for him blindly. Despair threatened to smother his spark.

Lugnut hesitated, but then his functioning optics blazed to a full, rich scarlet. “Y-yes!” In his eagerness, he surged to his feet. “The laboratory! I was taken there only cycles ago, for, uh, recalibration. It was after I saw you, Master. In the mine. They made me forget... they made me forget again. They will pay!”

“Easy, Lugnut.” Megatron stood and gestured to the big mech for calm. “Can you take me to the lab now?”

“Oh! Oh, y-yes, Master. It is...” He looked around him, taking in the devastation of the large chamber, the blocked exits, the encroaching fire. “ _This_ way!” He lurched ahead, and Megatron paced behind him. He clung to the hope that Lugnut was right. He couldn't leave without Starscream, he was certain of that. It had been Starscream who had guided him through his corrupted memories, Starscream who had reached him in a vision and pulled him back to who he was. 

Lugnut led him up a sloping tunnel choked with rubble. Megatron's armour grew even more singed and scratched as they pushed their way through the debris. Every now and then another explosion made the ground shake beneath their feet, and another shower of rubble fall upon them. Megatron urged Lugnut to go faster. The next explosion sounded very close, and they both fell to their knees before they could steady themselves. There was a roar, and Megatron looked back to find the tunnel caving behind them.

“Move!” he shouted. He pushed the larger mech forward, and they emerged from the tunnel at a run. Suddenly they were on the surface, as if the dry earth had abruptly spat them out. The sky was dark with smoke, and Megatron smelt burning. The red ground beneath his feet cracked as the structures and caves below gave way one by one.

He raised his optics. There was a structure built above the ground, a ranging complex of mirrored and white walls. Half the complex had already been claimed by fire, and was already being reduced to mere wreckage. Beyond the complex, three Quintesson ships stood like dark towers, their points drilled deep into the cracked earth. As he watched, one of them started to lift off. Megatron hoped it was only the Quintessons making good their escape.

“There,” Lugnut said, and pointed toward the buildings. He didn't need to – Megatron was already striding forward, propelled by an urgency that had nothing to do with the base's impending destruction. He found an entrance and started to smash his way inside. Lugnut lumbered up behind him and lent his aid. Never once had he asked why Megatron sought this lab. Once inside the creaking structure, Megatron followed his spark rather than his sensors. Lugnut followed placidly behind him.

He knew he was getting close when he heard the erratic hum of failing machinery, coupled with the strained whir of over-taxed fans. Beneath both, he thought he heard a whimper of pain. He increased his pace, and a beat later he was running. He crashed through a door, and suddenly he was there. It was a large chamber, the walls tiled in sterile white and lined with alien machinery. In the centre of the room was a flat steel cot, and on the cot, was Starscream.

They hadn't even bothered putting him into stasis. He lay on his back, his limbs and throat tied to the bench with fleshy, dark tendrils tight enough to crumple armour. An array of machines and monitors was attached to his frame with a plethora of wires.

Megatron took another step closer, and then halted. His throat burned, and if it hadn't been so long since his last energon ration he was sure the fuel would have come back up. He reached out, and his hand found Lugnut's arm. He leaned on him as the room spun around him. His spark was gripped in ice. He had arrived too late. The mech on the table was clearly dead. 

He took another step. No, any other mech _would_ be dead. But as Megatron drew closer he discerned the faint trembling of Starscream's frame, and his shallow, sharp intakes of breath. His optics stared glassily upward. His left elbow joint had been disconnected, the same with his right thigh and knee. The parts were laid out, but the gaps were painted with energon. One of his wings had been stripped of armour plating, and the struts and protoform beneath were clearly visible. His spark chamber was clamped open, and the rear wall of the chamber had been further desecrated, panels pried off and wires from the monitoring equipment thrust in. Part of his helm had been removed, revealing not only the neuronet across the surface of the protoflesh beneath, but in one section even that had been peeled back. 

Megatron tried to calculate how long he had been in the mine. His false memories made it hard to guess, but he knew with certainty that Starscream had been here, for all that time. The only bitter consolation was that it looked as if the Quintessons had only been getting started. Clearly they had planned to take their time. 

Starscream's optics flickered as Megatron approached. To Megatron's shock, the seeker focused on him for a moment before his optics once again became clouded by pain. Starscream opened his mouth and tried to speak. 

“He is dead, Master,” Lugnut murmured. He stood back as Megatron moved to Starscream's side. “His spark is extinguished, he... there is no way he could survive...” 

Megatron concentrated on Starscream. He leaned over the table, trying to coax Starscream into meeting his optics again, and attempted to quell his own horror. “Starscream,” he said gently. “Can you hear me? Do you understand?”

Starscream took a dry, rattling breath. His vocals, when they came, were a painful rasp. “You... took your time...”

Megatron almost laughed. Relief flooded his spark. If Starscream was lucid enough to criticise him, perhaps there was hope yet.

“Just be glad I didn't leave you behind,” he said. He looked up at Lugnut. “There isn't time to put him back together. Help me gather the... the pieces...”

“But Master, he-” Whatever Lugnut's argument would have been was cut short with one look from Megatron. He wasn't sure if it was command or desperation, but the result was Lugnut's obedience. He bent to carefully gathering the seeker's severed limbs and stowing them in subspace.

“I can... help,” Starscream said. His voice was little more than a whisper now. Megatron tried to be both careful and fast as he disconnected Starscream from the machines, simply trusting and hoping he wasn't inflicting yet more damage as he did so. He noticed absently that his hands were shaking. “Know my... own frame... built hundreds of... clones...”

“Later,” Megatron assured him. An alarm was blaring, and he knew they had only kliks left to work, if it wasn't too late already. He carefully fitted Starscream's helm back into place. It fitted badly over the flayed protometal beneath, but at least it would offer some form of protection from the dust and smoke beyond the lab. Once he was sure Lugnut had all the disconnected pieces gathered, Megatron took a breath. “We have to go. Now.”

He leant down, and very carefully slid one hand under Starscream's knee, the other under his back. He lifted him as cautiously as he could, but Starscream still let out an agonised whimper. His optics glazed over, and he seemed to slip into some form of half stasis. Megatron hoped it meant a reprieve from some of his pain. He stood, and cradled the broken seeker close to his chest.

He nodded to Lugnut. “To the ship, Lugnut. And let us hope Tappet and her revolutionaries have waited, as they promised to.”

Lugnut led the way once more. Megatron picked his way around rubble and dead sharkticons as they exited the laboratory compound and skirted around it. He wanted to move faster, but every step jogged Starscream in his arms, and even in his near-catatonic state Starscream continued to give small moans of pain. Behind the lab complex was a large, flat area, where two Quintesson ships cast vast shadows. There was a deep crater where the third ship had recently been. Megatron lifted his optics to the nearest ship in desperate hope.

“Hurry, Master,” Lugnut urged, and as Megatron watched, the ship's primary airlock opened and a ramp descended. It wasn't Tappet who appeared in the hatch, but the mech was clearly one of the freed miners. He beckoned them onward with an urgency that made both Lugnut and Megatron sprint the final distance to the ramp. Starscream whimpered in his arms, but Megatron knew they couldn't waste a further second. 

The moment they were inside the airlock, the miner brought the ramp up and closed the hatch. Megatron felt the ship's engines roar, and he almost lost his balance as they immediately started to take off. The Quintesson vessel spun slowly at first, and then began gaining speed as well as altitude. Megatron glanced through the window in the hatch and saw the red earth fall away from them. The ship revolved once more, and he saw the lab complex and the entrance to the mines. Just before the ship turned again and put them out of his field of view, there was a flash, and the fires that had been steadily burning suddenly flared into a blast of white that seared his optics. The final detonation obliterated what was left of the compound in a single second. Megatron turned away. 

The inner hatch had opened, and the miner was once again beckoning to him. He noticed distractedly that the mech bore faded Decepticon colours. Lugnut had already preceded him inside. Megatron clutched Starscream closer to him and stood as if in a daze. Belatedly, he realised the miner was speaking to him.

“-rudimentary medical bay, though I'm not sure there's much equipment for Cybertronians. Several of our own have already undertaken first-aid repairs. Cable and Gull have some medical background, I believe. Sir, are you coming aboard? Sir?”

Megatron swallowed. “Of course,” he said. “Yes. Medical bay. Take me there at once.”

He stepped through the hatch and into the ship. Once inside, the feeling of spinning seemed to subside. 

The miner sketched a salute. “Yes sir. Follow me, please.”

Megatron forced himself to hold Starscream more gently, and followed the mech through a low, curved corridor. Lugnut trailed behind him. 

“What's your designation?” Megatron asked. The miner was slightly built, with a set of narrow wings folded down his back. The wings carried brands Megatron must have put there himself, once upon a time. 

“Stringer, sir,” the mech said, with a brief look over his shoulder. “I was – am – one of Tappet's crew. And you should know, all of us are yours, now, too. Even the 'Bots know a mech worth following when they see one. Or at least, they know when they owe a debt. You freed us from our chains, Lord Megatron. All of us are grateful.”

Megatron nodded. Stringer's heartfelt words seemed to glance off him. He acknowledged them, but he felt nothing.

Stringer led them deeper into the ship in a spiral pattern through the vessel's winding walkways. The ship wasn't built to Cybertronian scale, but fortunately the Quintessons had been fond of generously proportioned spaces, and there was just enough room to walk upright. Eventually they came to a large, round chamber. The walls and floor were amber-coloured metal, and stark medical berths were arrayed around the outer wall. Many of them held wounded or ailing bots. Equipment and machinery was dotted at various stations around the room. Looking at it, Megatron realised this wasn't a true medical bay, but another of the Quintessons' labs. His fuel tank turned over, even as he realised that much of the equipment would necessarily be the same. 

Upon their arrival a tall femme and a wide, stocky mech came forward. Their mild expressions turned to horror when they beheld Starscream's pitiful state. Megatron stared at them. The mech was gabbling something about the horrendous damage. Megatron focused dimly on the femme. She spoke to him in a steady, even tone.

“Can he be helped?” she asked. She looked down at the mech in Megatron's arms. Her optics betrayed her doubts – they all thought he had brought them a corpse.

“He can. I command it,” Megatron said, but even he heard the desperation in that command. The two medics exchanged glances, and then the femme nodded.

“Get him on a berth,” she said. “Sir.”

He heard murmurs of talk around the room. Somebot whispered, “Isn't that the traitor?”

Megatron ignored the comment, for now. Starscream was more important. He lowered him onto the berth as if he were precious and breakable. “Lugnut, bring his parts. The rest of you, get out.”

“You can't-”

“Out!”

The medics hovered uneasily at the end of the berth as the rest of the rabble filed out. He realised, then, what a crowd his strange little procession had attracted. They may not have recognised him at first, but no doubt those who had been with Tappet in the cave had passed the gossip on. They left at his roared command, leaving Megatron and Starscream with only Lugnut and the medics. The damaged bots in the other berths watched with dull optics. 

Megatron didn't move his gaze away from Starscream's face, even as Gull gently moved him backward so she could work. Lugnut relinquished Starscream's parts to the other bot, who showed cool professionalism as he laid them out ready to reattach. A curtain was swept around the berth. 

“We're going to try and get him stable,” the femme said. “I'm going to need some help from you. The mech has no spark-”

“He's online,” Megatron said reflexively. “Give him fuel... energon.” In truth he didn't know. He didn't know if Starscream _could_ die, but he also didn't know he wouldn't simply stop when his fuel reserves ran out. The femme nodded and within kliks there was an energon drip hooked up to Starscream's lines. “He'll stay online,” Megatron murmured. “Too stubborn not to...”

He stood by helplessly as the two bots worked. Lugnut hovered at the edge of the makeshift ward; Megatron was only dimly aware of him, but he found he was glad of his presence nonetheless. When Lugnut moved around the berth to stand at Megatron's side, the warlord leant against him and was grateful for his steady support. 

Gull and Cable sealed up Starscream's leaking lines. His wing they covered with a thin, foil-like temporary skin, designed to protect the protoform until a more solid exo-casing could be improvised. His spark chamber was freed of all foreign objects and cleaned, and then sealed up. In the absence of a spark, both seemed somewhat at a loss as to how to treat that damage. The missing limbs were placed into cryostorage – Starscream wouldn't die without them, and Cable said they could be reattached once the seeker was in a better condition.

At some point somebot brought Megatron a chair. Joors had passed, and the ship was far from Torkulon, spinning slowly and inexorably away. He didn't know where they were going. He didn't give it a thought. He lifted his head, and realised he had been recharging at Starscream's bedside, his arms folded on the berth and his helm pillowed upon them. He rubbed his weariness from his optics and peered around. The med-bay was lit in a dim, amber-tinted glow. It seemed it was the down-shift. The chamber was still, empty but for the patients, silent but for the hum of machinery.

He looked down at Starscream. The seeker's optics were closed, and his expression was peaceful enough to fool a bot into thinking his pain was gone. Gull had dosed his energon drip with a sedative and painkiller both. Now, as Megatron watched him, he started to stir. Megatron wanted to shush him back into recharge, but he was paralysed as the seeker's chest rose as he breathed deeply in, and then his optics flickered and lit up. They sought Megatron, and their gazes locked. Starscream's claws fumbled against the berth, and Megatron caught his hand in his own.

“It's all right, Starscream,” Megatron murmured. He leaned over the berth, and held Starscream's hand to his chest. “You're on a ship. We left that planet behind, and the lab is destroyed. You're safe.”

Starscream drew another deep, rattling breath. “My frame...?”

“There are medics on board,” Megatron said. He didn't add that they were field medics primarily, and what Starscream needed was a surgeon. “Your frame will be repaired.”

Starscream nodded, and his head rested back against the berth. His hand squeezed Megatron's. Megatron swallowed thickly, struck not only by Starscream's stark vulnerability, but by his own frayed spark, his strut-deep weariness. When he had seen Starscream on that slab in the Torkulon laboratory, he had been terrified. 

He leaned closer to Starscream, and rested his free hand on the seeker's forehead. Starscream looked up at him with a question in his optics. Megatron only stroked Starscream's helm with his thumb. He had lost himself, but worse, he had come so close to losing Starscream. He was only realising now what that meant to him. What it had come to mean.

“Y-your debt,” Starscream croaked. “Is clear now... We're even. You're... free.”

Megatron cycled a slow breath, and then shook his head. “I pulled you out of the lab, Starscream,” he said, his vocals very soft. “But you've saved me twice, now. Without you, I would still be lost. No, I am still in your debt.” 

_I believe I always will be_ , he added silently. 

Starscream was frowning at him, and Megatron couldn't tell if he was puzzled or annoyed. Megatron sat back in his chair. He kept hold of Starscream's hand, resting it in his lap. Starscream didn't complain. “Sleep,” Megatron advised. “I'll keep an optic on you.”

Starscream watched at him for a long, silent moment, but when Megatron only returned his gaze, eventually the uncertainty lifted from Starscream's eyes. “Wake me when we reach... Monacus,” he said. 

Monacus. That was where they were supposed to be going, and where their lieutenants awaited them - Megatron remembered now. He remembered everything.

He would have to tell somebot to alter the ship's course, but for now he was too exhausted to rise. He nodded and offered Starscream a weary smile. "I'll wake you when we get there," he said.


	9. Break

They put the _Death's Head_ down on a small organic planet for a time, in the interests of avoiding a light fleet of slaver ships passing too close to their path. Lockdown had taken care to impress upon Prowl that it wouldn't be only Ghost and Whipcord such traders would take interest in. Prowl had become immensely uncomfortable at the implication that he, too, could be carried off, bound and chipped, and sold in the markets of Andala. 

They had been travelling for almost a decacycle since agreeing to Ghost's bargain. Almost a decacycle, also, since awakening Whipcord.

Prowl sat atop the _Death's Head_ 's tiny flight-deck. From his high perch he could look down upon the wide grassy clearing without being noticed. He had gone up there to meditate, but he found himself watching his companions more often than he turned his focus inward. 

Lockdown sat in the dappled shade of a large tree, methodically sharpening a new blade mod. Ghost and Whipcord were engaged in some sort of game, somewhere between pursuit and sparring. The femme looked almost clumsy when compared to Ghost's fluid, feline grace, but Prowl could see she had a dogged strength that he could admire. 

He could remember her activation as if it had happened the previous solar cycle. Lockdown had done something at the base of her helm, and her optics had flashed before blazing to full brightness. She had gasped, gaped around her, and then begun to scream. Lockdown had activated the work-table's restraints to keep her from lashing out in her outrage and fear. She had quieted only when Ghost stepped forward and spoke to her in a soft, soothing tone that sounded more like he was talking to a frightened animal than a fully-grown bot. She had recognised him somehow, and in a few kliks she had calmed enough for them to explain the situation to her. She had glowered at Lockdown and Prowl in unconcealed fury and hatred, but she had not attacked them when the restraints came off. 

Since then, she had eagerly adapted to their new plan. She seemed single-mindedly focused on reaching Cybertron and whatever kin she had there, and Prowl thought he could understand her determination to flee her erstwhile masters. She was a blunt, direct bot who made it quite obvious that she still hated Prowl for cutting her arm off. Prowl could hardly blame her, he supposed, except she seemed more tolerant of Lockdown than she did of him. That galled him, almost as much as Lockdown's peculiar budding fascination with Ghost. Even now, he was watching him, out of the corner of his optic. Prowl scowled. Ghost was just his type, he supposed – lithe and slender and dangerous. Prowl couldn't explain why it irritated him, but he had quickly found himself pushed to the outside of the unlikely trio. And so, he had taken to isolating himself voluntarily instead, as if to pre-empt his exclusion at their hands. 

He sighed heavily. He abandoned his attempts at meditation and rose to his feet. The planet they had landed on was rich with alien life, and Prowl should be exploring it, not sitting and brooding on the opinions of mechs he held no affection for. He hadn't pushed Lockdown to agree to returning Whipcord to Cybertron because he cared about her, but because it was the right thing to do. However, that thought did little to assuage his loneliness. He turned his optics away from his companions, and looked out into the thick forest that bordered their clearing. The _Death's Head_ was camouflaged as more of the same dense trees, and if he glanced upward Prowl could see the sheen of the holo-field arcing above him. 

He was lonely. He had refused to acknowledge the feeling for what it was, but now the knowledge assailed him. Somehow, the arrival of Ghost and Whipcord into his and Lockdown's isolated little world had only increased the sensation and made him all the more aware of the life and companionship he had left behind, in his past life. He knew, also, that some part of him hoped this journey to Cybertron would bring some of that back to him. 

He climbed nimbly down from the top of the ship. His feet had barely touched the soft, mossy grass when he heard Ghost's cool voice call out: “Ah, so the recluse has decided to join us after all.” Prowl bristled and turned toward him. Ghost and Whipcord stood close together. Ghost's expression was one of mild amusement, possibly guarded welcome. Prowl had thought Ghost would be his ally – after all, if Prowl had refused his bargain, both he and the femme would have been handed over to slavers or the Guard by now. Whipcord regarded him with unconcealed suspicion. The sight of her mutilated arm sent cold guilt rushing through him. “Won't you come and spar with us, Prowl?” Ghost said.

Prowl looked from Ghost to Whipcord, and back again. He sensed a challenge here. He rolled his shoulders, cast one last look at the unexplored forest, and nodded. “Very well,” he said. 

He had expected one, and then the other, but they spread out to flank him, and Prowl realised he was to face both bots at once. Apprehension prickled down his spinal strut. He drew deep intakes, and readied himself. 

Whipcord charged first. She launched herself at him in a charge that was easy for him to sidestep, but as soon as he did, Ghost was there. He quickly judged Ghost the more dangerous opponent, and blocked his strike swiftly. He had fought Ghost before, and watched him play with Whipcord. This time, Ghost fought with a small smile on his face. Prowl stilled his mind, and found his focus almost startlingly quickly. It was hardly an effort to sink into the now-familiar state of awareness and concentration, and he stepped into a deadly dance with Ghost, with Whipcord's blunt attacks a rough counterpoint to Ghost's flawless rhythm. 

At some point he realised Lockdown was watching them. Prowl could give him only the most fleeting glance. Ghost and Whipcord were making him work hard. He caught Lockdown's optic, and an unspoken message seemed to pass between them: he was holding back. Lockdown knew it – he had seen Prowl kill with utilitarian viciousness. And in that moment, Prowl knew it too. Anger and pride swelled within him, and his focus sharpened. Whipcord swung for him, and he turned that focus on her. He was aware of her spark, hot with vindictive anger, and he was aware of its energy pulsing through her lines. He thrust out his hand and _pushed_. It wasn't processor-over-matter, not entirely, but some combination of that and his spark-awareness. He didn't touch her, but she flew back as though she had been struck. Before she hit the ground, Ghost was closing in on him from behind. Prowl didn't need to see him. He sidestepped and caught the mech's arm. He flowed with Ghost's momentum just long enough to overbalance him, and then he let go and spun a kick to his midsection. It must have been a stronger blow than he realised. Ghost lost his poise as he tumbled into the damp, grassy earth. Prowl's visor narrowed, and he crouched, ready to follow up the attack.

“Prowl.”

Lockdown's voice seemed far away, but before Prowl could pounce on his fallen opponents, the hunter stepped in front of him. Prowl blinked, startled, and looked up. Lockdown's broad frame blocked his immediate view of Ghost. Slowly, Prowl rose from his stance. His intakes were cycling hard, and he felt jittery as the battle-high abruptly left him.

Lockdown looked over his shoulder to where Ghost and Whipcord were picking themselves up. 

“What was that?” Whipcord demanded breathlessly. “What did you do to me?”

“Are you damaged?” Lockdown growled. When Whipcord shook her head, he said, “Then it's time we got moving. Slavers will've passed on by now. Get back to the ship and make sure all the cargo's still secure before we leave.”

Neither bot was happy with the growled command, but both Ghost and Whipcord, with many a backward look, stalked back aboard the _Death's Head_ without further argument. Prowl flexed his fingers and stretched the joints. 

Once the other two bots were gone, Lockdown turned a contemplative gaze on Prowl. “What?” Prowl snapped.

“You scared 'em,” Lockdown said. 

Prowl gave a huff of indignation and crossed his arms. He paced restlessly. He didn't have an answer. He knew there was no excuse for his behaviour – he had overreacted to some imagined slight, and had been ready to use killing violence in what was supposed to be recreational practice.

Lockdown ignored his discomfiture. “Where'd you think he learned his style?” he mused. He stroked his chin, and was gazing at the ship as though in thought. Prowl saw himself forgotten again already. “I recognised some metallikato there.”

Prowl found himself nodding in spite of himself. He replayed the scuffle in his mind. “He's had ninjabot training, but he wasn't Yoketron's pupil.”

“What makes you so sure?” Lockdown said with a raised brow. 

The look Prowl gave him was like stone. “I was Master Yoketron's last student. I never saw Ghost's face in the holo-gallery.”

“You never saw mine, either,” Lockdown said with a smirk that turned Prowl cold. Lockdown had disgraced the master they shared, only to return from his exile to murder Yoketron and steal away the protoforms it was his sacred duty to protect. Every reason Prowl had to truly hate the mech returned to the forefront of his mind, and his tank turned over in disgust. He was almost more annoyed at Lockdown for reminding him to hate him than he was with himself for forgetting. 

“He could have learnt metallikato anywhere,” Prowl muttered. 

“I guess,” Lockdown agreed. “Prowl.” Prowl had turned away and had begun to trudge back to the ship. He glanced back over his shoulder at the hunter. “You oughtta pick a different sparring partner. Ghost's good, but he ain't you.”

Prowl frowned at him. After a silence, he said, “What's that supposed to mean?”

Lockdown grinned. “You need a partner you don't need to hold back with. Somebot you ain't afraid o' hurting.” He rolled his shoulders. “You got the makin's of a pro, kid. More than that. But if you wanna get stronger, you can't hold back.”

Prowl cocked his head. “Somebot like you, you mean?” His fingers tingled, and he flexed his hands. Some of the restless energy from his fight with Whipcord and Ghost still haunted his system. Did he want to become the perfect killer Lockdown seemed to think he could be? No, but he did want to get stronger. It was a dangerous proposition, but he felt himself squaring up to it. “No limits?” he said.

“No blades,” Lockdown replied. Prowl nodded. His energon sabre would gut the mech in close-quarters, and he wasn't keen to spar with Lockdown's chainsaw. The hunter shrugged. “Wanna go right now? We got time before we gotta leave.”

“You told the others we were taking off soon,” Prowl said sceptically. Lockdown only shrugged again. Prowl turned fully to face him and gave him a long, appraising look. “All right.” He sank into an easy stance and fixed his optics on Lockdown. Lockdown flashed him another gap-toothed grin, and then attacked. 

Prowl crouched low to miss the first swing of Lockdown's hook, and spun a low kick in response. Lockdown recovered his balance quickly and came in hard. Prowl reeled when the hunter's fist connected with his helm. He spun, and regained his balance just in time to narrowly dodge a kick. The pain was negligible compared to how much it rankled his pride that Lockdown had landed the first blow. His senses sharpened, and he flung himself into battle with a passion and aggression he had not allowed when fighting Whipcord and Ghost. He let all his rage and hatred of Lockdown rear to the front of his mind – instead of clouding his focus, it enhanced it, sharpening it to a blade's edge. They traded blows, but this wasn't a dance or even a mock-fight. Prowl was fighting to kill. 

When the opportunity came, he took it. He tangled his legs with Lockdown's and used the larger mech's lunge to tumble them both to the floor. He snarled as he straddled Lockdown's waist and wrapped his hands around the hunter's throat. Lockdown's fist slammed against his jaw, and he was dazed enough for a second to let Lockdown grip his shoulders and flip them. Prowl kicked savagely, and Lockdown grunted. His grip loosened enough for Prowl to twist and claw his way partially free of the bigger mech, but Lockdown grabbed his ankle and pulled him back. Prowl was on his belly on the grass now, his teeth bared and his fingers digging into the soft earth. Lockdown used his superior weight to pin him. He caught both of Prowl's hands in his one, and pressed his other forearm against the back of Prowl's neck. Prowl bucked and growled. 

“Not bad,” Lockdown said. He sounded short of breath. “Gotta admit it's nice to know I've still got the edge, though.”

His frame pressed down on Prowl's. Prowl squirmed, and Lockdown leaned on him harder. Prowl flushed to feel a peculiar thrill rush through him. He sensed the thundering pulse of Lockdown's spark, and the heat of the fuel in his lines. The hunter's energy field radiated brutish dominance and pride. And beneath that, a heady throb of lust. Prowl gasped, and was shocked at himself when an answering ripple of heat ran through his own frame. 

“Let me go,” Prowl gasped. 

Lockdown leaned down, pressing Prowl deeper into the soft, damp grass, and growled into his audio, “Givin' up so easily, Prowl?”

Prowl didn't answer. He kept his sullen silence, and after a long moment in which he was aware of nothing but Lockdown's weight on his back, the heat of his frame, and the throb of his swollen spark, the hunter finally rolled off him. Prowl pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The front of his frame was smeared with mud and dotted with scraps of wet grass. He was running hot, and only partially due to exertion. He tried to ignore the extra-sensory awareness that made Lockdown's chaotic energy field and hotly burning spark intrude upon his thoughts. 

He glanced to his right. Lockdown sprawled on his back, his optics on Prowl. 

“That was... different,” Prowl said. Lockdown only watched him, and so Prowl moved to rise to his feet. He had one foot under him when Lockdown reached out, caught his hook around Prowl's upper arm, and jerked him down. Prowl put his hands on Lockdown's chest to stop his fall, but Lockdown's hand cupped the back of his helm and pulled him closer. The hunter leant up and pressed his mouth to Prowl's. Some impulse Prowl didn't understand drove him to part his lips and dive into the kiss. He grunted and pushed Lockdown back down against the ground. The kiss became deeper, and Prowl felt he was falling head-first into a paradigm he had never envisioned, never allowed himself to entertain. He pushed all thought away and bit at Lockdown's glossa. He existed only in the moment, and in the hot and selfish pleasure of the hunter's mouth on his own, the hunter's glossa sliding aggressively against his. He pressed his chest against Lockdown's, and slid one hand up to hold one of the spikes on his shoulder. Lockdown's hand moved heavily down his back. When it reached his aft, Prowl startled enough to recover his senses. He snarled and pulled himself free of Lockdown's grip. He dealt an open-handed slap to the hunter's face, and lurched to his feet. 

Lockdown sat up, his expression a mix of anger and satisfaction. He rubbed the side of his face where Prowl had hit him. Before he could speak, Prowl turned and fled. He transformed and sped to the ship, up the ramp, and inside. He locked himself in his room, and stayed there until long after the _Death's Head_ had taken off and they were once again on their way. 

*****

Prowl curled on the window-ledge and watched the stars roll by. About two solar cycles had passed, and he hadn't left the room once. Now, however, hunger was creeping up on him, and he faced up to the fact that he would have to venture out. 

He sighed and unfolded his limbs. He padded across the room, unlocked the door, and looked out. Satisfied no one was nearby, he crept out and made his stealthy way to the galley. He halted at the door, just out of sight. Within, Whipcord and Ghost sat at the long table and played cards. 

Prowl's empty tank drove him forward. He took a deep breath and stepped inside the galley. Whipcord looked up as he made himself seen and heard. She straightened up and looked as if she might be about to leave. The look Ghost gave him was less hostile, even if it was still guarded. 

Prowl looked at them both briefly, and then crossed to the far side of the galley to take out a large cube of mid-grade for himself. The tension in the room became palpable as the silence stretched on. He took a slow sip of the energon while keeping his back to the room. 

Eventually, Ghost broke the silence. “I was beginning to think we'd left you behind on that planet,” he said. 

Prowl turned and met Ghost's optics. He saw a wariness there, but also recognised his words as a tentative olive branch. 

“I haven't been feeling my usual self,” he said. He leaned against the counter-top and took another sip. “Your shoulder seems to be healing well.”

Ghost glanced down at it. Lockdown had initially welded it shut and bandaged it; now the bandages were off and all that was left was an uneven scar where the wound had been. “Your partner could have been a medic,” he said with a wry smile. “Although his bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

Prowl choked on his energon, but recovered himself quickly. He was sure Lockdown was better at taking bots apart than putting them back together, though he supposed he must have done enough surgery on himself over the years to know how to fit a mech together. “He's not my partner,” he said weakly.

“You said that before.” Ghost met his optics and raised a brow. Prowl looked away. Unfortunately, his optics fell on Whipcord, and her missing arm was a silent rebuke. He wondered if she hadn't been offered a replacement, and then realised that most bots would recoil in horror at being offered spare parts from a trophy hunter's cache. Prowl supposed he had become so used to the shelves and crates of mods and salvaged parts that he barely thought of them any more. “Lockdown says it won't be too long before we reach Commonwealth space,” Ghost said. Prowl nodded.

“I'm going to bed,” Whipcord announced. She got to her feet and stalked to the door, clearly not wishing to tolerate Prowl's presence any longer. Prowl sighed as he watched her go. 

“She can't stand me,” he observed quietly. He realised how self-pitying it sounded. 

“She holds a grudge since you were the one to capture her,” Ghost said. “And the arm, of course.”

“Lockdown and I both captured her,” Prowl said. He looked sullenly down into his energon. “I regret what I did to her. But she would have killed me otherwise.” He glanced up to see Ghost shrug. A thought occurred to him. “Whipcord was a Decepticon. What possible kin could she have on Cybertron?”

“Ah.” Ghost sat back. “You figured that out, did you?” He held up a hand to silence Prowl before he began. “Whipcord's story isn't as complicated or as secret as you suspect. There are bots on Cybertron who would be happy to welcome someone like her. Sit down, and I'll tell you.”

Prowl hesitantly approached the seat Whipcord had recently vacated. He sat, set his energon on the table, and wrapped his hands around it. 

“I don't work alone, Prowl. There are several of us, hundreds of us, who see how far widespread this new form of slavery has become. And the worst part is that much of it is Autobot-sanctioned.”

“Slavery is illegal in the Commonwealth,” Prowl said. 

Ghost tilted his head. “It's not as simple as that. It's illegal for a Cybertronian to keep another Cybertronian as a slave. On Cybertron, the Guard can enforce this, at least. The menial labour on the home-world is carried out by prisoners, mostly Decepticons. But they got what they deserved, right? They're just serving out their sentence. But beyond Cybertron? Well, where do I start? Trypticon filled up centuries ago. More than half the Decepticons captured in the last war ended up shipped out to distant prison worlds, and from there to anywhere from secret mining colonies to organic pleasure worlds. They have their T-cogs removed and are used for transport and racing, construction, war. To organics, they're not slaves, they're _machines_.” He swirled his own small cube of fuel. “I even hear that most of the Commonwealth's energon production these days comes from off-world, outsourced mines run by aliens.”

“Quints, is what I heard.” Both bots looked up to the sound of Lockdown's gruff vocals. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms folded. Prowl's faceplates heated, and he looked back down into his energon. He tensed as he felt the hunter's optics on him. “See you returned to the land o' the living.”

Prowl didn't answer. Ghost rose to his feet, and Prowl wished he had thought to leave first. Now it would look like he was fleeing. Worse, it would be true.

“I'm going to go and check on Whipcord,” Ghost said, unnecessarily. Lockdown stepped into the galley to make room for the smaller mech to pass by. Prowl listened to him pace slowly into the room. He had been avoiding Lockdown, and the hunter knew it. He schooled himself to be ready for whatever retribution Lockdown decided to try and bring down upon him for rejecting him like that. 

He stiffened when Lockdown's hand descended on his shoulder. “Drink up, Prowl. Two days without fuel was stupid.” Just like some other things he had done recently, Prowl thought. He pushed the half-empty cube away. He was still hungry, but he wouldn't sit there and tolerate Lockdown's insults. He forced Lockdown to step back as he pushed out his chair and stood up. Lockdown moved away, but not far enough.

He turned and glared at the hunter, but Lockdown spoke before he could. “Avoiding me won't take it back, Prowl. You can't make it so it didn't happen, even if you want to.” Prowl curled his hands into fists. Did the hunter sound bitter, or was it simple irritation that made his lip curl in a sneer of contempt? Whatever it was, it made Prowl seethe. Lockdown took a step closer. Prowl backed against the table, trapped as the hunter leaned in. Outrage and panic drove him to fight. 

With a snarl, he set one hand in the centre of Lockdown's chest and pushed hard. As Lockdown stumbled back, Prowl's other hand came up, and he was stunned to see his blade drawn. It hummed and filled the air with a hot ozone scent. Lockdown leaned away from its point and held up his hand and hook. His optics had gone wide with surprise. Prowl's hand was shaking. 

“What do you want?” Prowl demanded. 

“Easy, Prowl,” Lockdown murmured. 

Prowl narrowed his visor and sneered. “Forget that. I know what you want.”

Lockdown shifted his gaze from the blade to Prowl's face. His posture changed from defensive to threatening in a subtle shift of his weight and roll of his broad, spiked shoulders. He sneered at him, and his optics burnt a deeper red. 

“And what do _you_ want, Prowl? Do you even know?”

Prowl held his optics for a tense moment more. Then he sheathed his blade and stepped away from the table, turning his back on Lockdown. He ignored the quiver of heat he felt when he thought back to their clumsy kiss. It was wrong, everything about it was wrong. He hated Lockdown. He had taken everything from him. He had killed his mentor, betrayed everything he should have stood for, and cast Prowl's life into ruins. He had also restored Prowl's broken frame, fed him and given him shelter even when Prowl had been half-wild and murderous when he first came back to life. Prowl grit his teeth. None of that mattered. Nothing the hunter did now could change what he had done in the past, or who he was. Prowl's frame's reaction to his interest was a betrayal Prowl found disgusting. 

“What I want,” he said, “is to remain on Cybertron, when we get there.”

There was a silence. Prowl started to stalk away. He gasped as Lockdown's hand suddenly closed on his arm. The hunter spun him, and his back hit the wall. Prowl stared up at Lockdown, too dazed to draw his blade again and gut him like he deserved. 

“Cybertron?” Lockdown growled. Incredulous rage shone in his optics. He let go of Prowl's arm, but he leant his forearms on the wall and boxed Prowl in with his broad, tall frame. “So you can go back there and sacrifice yourself all over again? Go back and be the war hero, the martyr? Tell me what the slag is there for you?”

Prowl pressed himself against the wall, but the gaze he gave the hunter was far from cowed. “My friends,” he said. “My life.”

“That life ended.” Lockown's vocals were rough and merciless. “You got your blaze of glory, and you got to die your hero's death. And what did you get for it? A pretty tomb left to drift the rim, left for the raiders and thieves. I saw it myself. You're worth more than that, slag it.”

“And what would you give me instead?” Prowl said, his voice low. 

Lockdown snarled. “Life! Like I said before, Prowl, you can do whatever you want now. You don't have to be the Autobots' poster-boy any more, or their sacrifice. Go back to them and they'll use you, if they don't pick you apart first to figure out what makes you tick.”

“Why do you even care what happens to me?” Prowl said. 

Lockdown leaned closer. “Maybe 'cause it's fragging frustrating watchin' you hold yourself back all the time, watchin' you limit yourself, hold yourself back from what you could be for the sake of the Autobot ideals that killed got you killed in the first place. It's a slagging waste.”

That wasn't it, and Prowl knew it. That wasn't all of it at all. “You want me to be like you, instead.”

“You are like me,” Lockdown said. Prowl's spark would have frozen, if he still had it. “You don't belong to them.”

“Neither do I belong to you.” He started to push Lockdown away, but the stronger hunter refused to budge. 

“No. You belong to you. You don't owe them nothin', and you don't have to live for anybot's sake but your own. Maybe you oughtta think about that a while, and then come back and tell me what you _really_ want.”

He did step back then, and turned his back. Prowl watched him leave the galley and tried to bite down the sense of bitter disappointment that rose inexplicably within him. He scoffed, and returned to the table. He took up his cube and drank down the rest of the fuel. He gulped down two more cubes before finally storming from the galley and returning to his rooms.


	10. Bargains

Lockdown stalked the halls of the _Death's Head_ , heading for his workroom. It seemed to him the ship had grown very crowded lately. It wasn't a big ship – more than adequate for one lone hunter, of course, but with two hunters and two passengers it seemed he could no longer find peace or solitude anywhere save his own chambers. Sure enough, when he reached his workshop he found the big chair occupied, this time by the femme.

Whipcord was scrolling through some of the feeds on the viz-screen. He saw her linger on her own entry. 

“Just blind luck it was us that caught yer,” Lockdown said. He lumbered into the workroom and pulled out a crate of old blades that needed sharpening. “Another bot woulda turned you in for the cash already.”He sorted through the blades, selected one, and pulled a stool over. He sat down and started seeing about converting the blade into an attachment for his hook arm. “Not that you were a big prize anyway.”

Whipcord turned the chair around and watched him for a while. “What are you doing?” she said, at length. 

He didn't glance up. By this time he had his tools out and had settled in to his work. It wasn't a pressing task, but he needed something to occupy him after his unsettling altercation with Prowl. There were always boxes of mods that needed customising, calibrating, or adapting. Whipcord left the chair and wandered over to peer at his work. Perhaps she was bored. Or perhaps, like him, she was looking to avoid somebot's company. 

“Adaptin' this,” he said, and he held up the blade, “into something' I can use.” He put the blade down and waved his hook to illustrate. 

“Why can't you use it now?” She pulled another stool over and perched inelegantly on it.

“I don't like to carry a lot o' extra weapons around on a hunt. It's better to integrate your mods into your frame. Gives a better grip, plus you've always got whatever you need handy.”

Whipcord nodded. She leant her elbow on the table and watched him work. Lockdown ignored her and got on with what he was doing. He switched his hook for a narrow-fingered hand to make it easier, and the femme watched him with almost unsettling focus. 

Eventually, when he was almost finished adapting the blade, he said, “There somethin' you want?”

Whipcord rested her chin in her hand, and waved the stump of her other arm. Prowl's blade had done most of the work of welding it shut, and Lockdown had done the rest. Neither of them had offered her a replacement. 

“Seriously? Most bots empty their tanks at the sight o' my little collection. And you're askin' for scraps?”

“'S not scraps if you owe me,” Whipcord said. Her voice was deep and rough. Unusual for a femme, but not unattractive, he thought. 

“Prowl took your arm, not me,” Lockdown said, and returned to his work. 

She stared at him, but he refused to give in by meeting her determined gaze. Eventually she grunted and shrugged. “He's your partner, isn't he?”

Lockdown scowled. He waved toward the crowded shelves that lined the walls of the workshop. “Find somethin' you like and bring it here so I can fit it for you.”

Whipcord rose and ambled toward one of the shelves. She perused it a while, and idly picked up a heavy clawed hand to inspect. “Why can't I just fit it on?” she asked.

“You want it integrated into your vehicle mode? Then I gotta convert it for ya. Otherwise it'll mess up your transformin' and cause all kinds o' problems.”

Whipcord put the claw back down and walked along the shelf a ways. She moved slowly, and trailed a finger along the arrayed mods, weapons, and limbs. Lockdown kept half an optic on her. Most bots viewed his collection with horror, but Whipcord didn't waste her time or breath in complaining.

Lockdown had finished work on the blade when Whipcord returned to his workbench carrying a chunky arm attachment in dark, martial grey. He gave it an appraising look, and then nodded, well enough impressed with her choice. She set it heavily on the table. 

“You know that one transforms into a cannon,” he said.

“I know,” Whipcord said. She gave him a small, crooked smile. “I knew a bot had something similar once. Might even have been his. Thought it might be handy if I get cornered by bounty hunters or something.” 

“Heh.” He pulled the gun-arm across the table. “Let me scan you, then.”

She stood obediently while he ran scans with his hand-held. The bot he got the arm from was a similar alt, fortunately, so he set to work adapting the mod to her frame with relative ease. To his surprise, she sat down and continued to watch him work.

“You got any cygarettes?” she asked.

“There's some cygars under the nav terminal,” he grunted. She sighed and rested her head in her hand again. It didn't take Lockdown long to fix the arm. “Stand up, let's get it attached, then maybe you'll get outta my way.”

Whipcord was stoically silent as he opened up the end of the arm again. The wires inside were half melted and healing slowly. He would have to damage them more before he could adapt the limb to accept added attachments. 

“Get on the berth,” he said. “Doesn't this hurt?” Whipcord nodded. “Dumb 'Con. Kid did a number on ya...”

Whipcord only grunted at that. She lay on the berth as he directed, and stared at the ceiling as he pried armour away and stripped wires.

“So what's the deal with him?” she said, after a long silence. 

Lockdown didn't look up from his work. “Prowl?”

“Uhuh.”

“Nothin',” Lockdown said. “He's always like that. Autobot, y'know?”

Whipcord nodded thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I've known a few Autobots in my life. They were all self-righteous pains-in-the-aft, too.”

Lockdown had to laugh. “Sounds like Prowl. Kid thinks energon-goodies don't melt in his mouth.”

“Why do you put up with him? He struts around with a stick up his actuator like he's the fragging chosen of Primus,” the femme continued to grumble. Then she paused, and cast him a sidelong look. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess a bot's got the right to pick his own mate.”

Lockdown snickered. He didn't feel like setting her straight. “Sounds to me like you're offerin' a replacement.”

“Why not?” Whipcord asked with a half shrug. Her new arm was completed, and Lockdown stood back and wiped his hands on a rag while she sat up. She flexed her new digits, and then experimentally transformed the hand. Fully transformed, it became a compact cannon designed for close-up fire. It was too big for her frame, but the weight didn't seem to trouble her. She raised the weapon, pointed it at the far wall of the workshop, and squinted as she tested her aim. 

“Hey, take your target practice _off_ my ship,” Lockdown said.

Whipcord nodded and transformed the gun back into a hand again. It was a mech's hand, and looked as ungainly and heavy as the gun had. She flexed the fingers and then formed a fist. “Not bad, mech,” she said. She looked back up at him with raised brows. “So, why not?”

Lockdown shrugged. Time to come clean, he supposed. “What you said about Prowl might be more true than either of us think – 'bout him being Primus's chosen an' all. Who the frag knows? But we're not mated. We're barely partners.”

Whipcord digested his words for a moment. Then she said, “So he's got no claim on you?”

Lockdown laughed. “None that the glitch has told me about.” Whipcord cocked her head and smiled suggestively. “Won't your bodyguard have my helm?” he asked.

“Who, Ghost? He's got even less of a claim on me than your little ninja has on you,” Whipcord said with a shake of her head. She slid off the berth and stretched her back. “Fact is, I never met him before waking up on your ship.”

“Huh. Funny, you looked like you recognised him.” Lockdown walked around putting his tools away. 

“Yeah... I'd spoken to him through a holo-comm before, but...” Whipcord shook her head. “It's weird. It's like I know him, but I don't remember why.”

Lockdown frowned. “You weren't fitted with one o' them memory chips, were ya? Hear about a lot o' slaves gettin' those these days.”

“Ghost says I wasn't...” For the first time, Whipcord sounded unsure of herself.

“Hm. I wonder what else Ghost says. Why don't you pop the hood on that processor o' yours and we'll see whether our sneaky little friend is talkin' slag.”

Whipcord smiled, but shook her head. “Maybe on the second date,” she said.

Lockdown shrugged. “Whatever you say. So what're we gonna do for the first?” 

Whipcord's smile became a leer. “Oh, I can think of a few things,” she said.

*****

The solar cycles passed, and day by day, they made their way gradually closer and closer to Cybertron. Lockdown insisted on picking up small jobs on the way. “This ship don't run on noble intentions,” he'd said, and Prowl had reluctantly seen his point. The _Death's Head_ needed fuel, and the energon stores for their own rations, already low, dwindled alarmingly fast now that they had to feed four instead of two.

He was relieved to find that, even when hunts were scarce, there was still work to be found for a ragtag group such as themselves. Ghost and Whipcord even helped out on some jobs – Whipcord's new gun arm had awoken her battle-lust anew, and she seemed to be no stranger to security work. Ghost's phase-shifter left theft an option, but Prowl tried to discourage such a misuse of the advanced mod. As for Prowl himself, he had little stomach for either hunting or mercenary work. He was beginning to realise, however, that hunting was what he was _good_ at. 

One of the Autobots' prison worlds had recently suffered a break-out, and many of the former inmates had prices on their heads. Most had disappeared into the outer rim, but there were still bounties enough on the feed to keep the _Death's Head_ stocked for her voyage, and her makeshift crew well fed. 

Currently they were stopped over near a small desert planet, doing some salvage work on a derelict freighter drifting in the lee of the planet's moon. When Lockdown had mentioned “salvage” Prowl had been immensely relieved to find he meant it literally, rather than stripping some hapless bot of his mods. His enthusiasm had waned somewhat as the joors passed, however – it was dull, strut-breaking work that put him in mind of his brief stretch on the space-bridge repair crew. 

Prowl was crouched in one of the freighter's service conduits. He had removed a panel from the wall, and was working with some of Lockdown's tools to extract any components that looked serviceable. The hunter had a list of parts he was particularly looking for – the _Death's Head_ was an old ship, and seemed, just like its owner, to be made up mostly of mismatched second-hand parts. As one component finally wore out, Lockdown would patch it or replace it. The thought of replacing the ancient vessel itself never seemed to cross his mind. Unfortunately, Prowl didn't know what most of the items on the list even looked like, let alone where to find them, and so he had settled for grabbing anything that looked useful. He had been painstakingly collecting a pile of what looked like junk for the past joor and a half. 

He sat back on his heels and wiped grease from his brow with a sigh.

“Thirsty work, isn't it?” Ghost's face appeared above him. Prowl started in surprise. Ghost smiled, and passed the rest of the way through the wall. He sank down beside Prowl and offered him one of two cans of coolant. Prowl cycled a deep breath to try and cover his alarm at the other bot's sudden appearance. Ghost could move as silently as Prowl could, and the phase-shifter fitted into his system meant he also had a habit of bypassing doors and instead passing straight through floors and walls. 

Prowl took the can gratefully. “It would help if I had any idea what I was looking for,” he said, and gestured to the open wall panel and mess of shredded wires and metal within.

Ghost sat down with his legs crossed and took a sip of his own coolant. “Mm, I know what you mean. Whipcord seems to be having more luck than either of us, but then she seems to have more in common with your partner than either of us do.”

It was a throwaway comment, but Prowl's visor narrowed. “Such as?” he said.

Ghost shrugged one shoulder. “Only that neither of us was ever designed for manual work. I'm a dancer. I'm not sure what your first function was, but you're an elegant warrior. I can tell you're Cyberninja Corps, of course.”

Prowl turned back to his work, setting the coolant down. “I was,” he said. “Briefly.” 

He felt Ghost watching him as he clumsily pulled wires from the connecting ports of a component that looked a little like something Lockdown had described on his list. Ghost shifted, and leant his back against the wall. He tilted his head back, and spoke conversationally. “I meant that they seem to have hit it off quite surprisingly well, all things considered. They spend an awful lot of time together.”

“Its none of my business how they spend their time,” Prowl said, and tried to keep his focus on his work. A prickle of irritation travelled through his sensornet all the same. Lockdown and the femme had been spending time together, not only working alongside one another, but Prowl knew they spent their down-time in one another's company as well. 

“Perhaps not,” Ghost said. He looked at Prowl. “No. You're right.”

Prowl worked in silence for a few kliks, while Ghost sat companionably and sipped his coolant. Prowl wondered if Ghost intended on helping him work at all.

“I just thought,” Ghost said eventually, “you should be aware. Far be it from me to cast aspersions on your partnership, of course. I'm sure he would never think of cutting you out of a profitable deal.”

Prowl slowly put his tools down. He looked at Ghost. “What are you talking about?”

Ghost raised one elegant brow. “Whipcord's kin will pay generously for her return. So generously, your partner may not wish to share that bounty,” he said.

Prowl frowned at him, unimpressed and unconvinced. “So _you_ say,” he said. “I've yet to see any proof of any bounty at all. I agreed to take her to Cybertron because it felt like the right thing to do. Which I am starting to doubt.” He knew his visor glinted icy blue, and Ghost shifted slightly, as if his shoulder wound still caused him discomfort.

“...All right,” he eventually said. “Cards on the table, then.” He leaned toward Prowl conspiratorially. “Whipcord's 'kin' on Cybertron are actually the group I work with. We offer safe-houses and amnesty for escaped slaves from all over the galaxy. Truly, there's nowhere Whipcord would be safer. It's in her best interests, and ours, for her to return to Cybertron with us, as you're helping her to do. However, a less noble mech might... have other designs.” Prowl's stony stare was all the prompting he needed to continue. “For instance, I believe a slave in such good condition would fetch a high price, either ransomed back to her former masters, or sold on as contraband. Obviously either option is far from ideal for Whipcord herself. But I'm sure your partner has far too much _honour_ to do such a thing...”

Prowl curled his lip. Could it be Lockdown had been cosying up to the femme to lull her into trusting him, trusting him enough for him to sell her on to the highest bidder? And if that was the case, then of course he would keep it secret from Prowl. That thought angered him more than the idea that the hunter would keep all the profits for himself and leave Prowl in the cold. 

“You and I both know Lockdown doesn't have a drop of honour anywhere in his system,” Prowl said. 

Ghost nodded. “I was afraid of as much. And then, of course, there's the question of what _you_ do once he cuts you out.”

“I think I have an answer to that one,” Prowl said. He held Ghost's optics. “I've told Lockdown that once we reach Cybertron, I'm staying. So, whatever happens, I'll remain there.”

Ghost tilted his head. “It's a good idea. You deserve your hero's welcome.” At Prowl's surprised look, he smiled and said, “I know who you are, Prowl. I didn't at first, but we've travelled together a little while now. I know you're Prowl, the war hero. Optimus Prime said you saved the Allspark, and his life.”

Prowl's optics widened behind his visor. The space where his spark should have been suddenly ached. “Optimus...?”

Ghost nodded. “You're a hero, Prowl. You have a chance, now, to continue the legacy you created. To do something better, higher-”

“By helping you, you mean?” Prowl said.

“Have you wondered at all why you've returned? I know you died, Prowl. I saw the feeds from the victory parade. Has it occurred to you that maybe you were brought back for a reason?” 

“It... I don't know.” Prowl slumped. He was lost in his thoughts, until Ghost's hand on his own pulled him out of his bewildered reverie. Ghost had his own agenda, Prowl knew now – but was it such a terrible one? He had a noble ideal in mind, and was working for the good of Cybertronians. Perhaps if Prowl was looking for a higher purpose, some way off the dangerous path he was on now, then surely this was it? “I think-”

“Prowl! Where are ya?”

Both bots turned guiltily to the entrance to the conduit. There were heavy footsteps in the hold beyond. Ghost's hand tightened on Prowl's and he met his optics. “We'll continue this talk later,” he said. Before Prowl could reply, the dancer rose and walked away, disappearing through the wall. Prowl noticed he walked in the opposite direction from Lockdown.

Prowl sighed. “I'm here,” he called. He gathered up as much as he could and made his awkward, stooped way out of the conduit. 

“Good, you found one,” Lockdown said. He took an object from the top of Prowl's pile of spoils and turned away as he inspected it. “Knew I could count on you. C'mon, we're movin' on.” He was already walking away, so Prowl dropped the rest of the junk in his subspace and followed, trying to quell his irritation. 

*****

Prowl didn't see Ghost again until the deep of that night cycle. They had left the old freighter behind and were once more making their ponderous way toward Cybertron. Prowl had retired to his room, but recharge didn't come easy. Instead, he sat on the cool floor at the base of his berth, his legs folded, as he tried to find some order in his chaotic thoughts.

He could confront Lockdown, of course. But the hunter would deny all knowledge of any suspect plots, and whatever halting progress they had made in their tolerance of each other would be ruined. Alternatively, he could simply take Ghost at his word and accept his suspicions as fact. That idea unnerved him almost as much – Ghost was earnest and impassioned when he spoke about doing what was right, but Prowl wasnt' a mech to trust another so quickly. The only option, it seemed, was to draw some conclusions of his own. A small, grim smile curved his lips as he contemplated what he must do.

Ghost entered his chambers in his usual silent style. Prowl was aware of his arrival this time, however. He had his optics offlined, and Ghost didn't make a sound. Prowl felt the presence of his spark all the same. 

“Have you thought about what we talked about today?” Ghost said. Prowl onlined his optics as Ghost walked in front of him and sank down onto one knee. He gave him a mild smile.

“I've given it some thought, yes. I've made no decisions.”

“I thought as much... I brought fuel, but then I wasn't sure if you drink high-grade...” He produced two small cubes and set them on the floor between them.

“Thank you,” Prowl said. “I don't. I appreciate the thought, though.”

Ghost nodded. He took one of the cubes and drank. Prowl cycled a deep breath. He felt almost relaxed now he had reached a decision. He would discover the truth for himself, and then act upon what he found. He watched Ghost in silence for a klik. 

“If you didn't come here for an answer,” he said, “why are you here?”

Ghost lowered the cube and gave him a smooth smile. “The pleasure of your company, perhaps? For such a crowded little ship, it's easy to feel lonely on board, don't you think?”

Prowl bit his glossa. He examined his feelings and realised Ghost was right on the money. Prowl had been on the _Death's Head_ travelling with Lockdown for so long, he felt cut off and isolated. It had been tolerable, he realised, while the hunter at least had time for him. Prowl loathed to think he wanted _Lockdown's_ company, but even that was preferable to being passed over for Whipcord's attentions. The aching loneliness he had spent his time denying and ignoring suddenly made his chest ache with its unexpected potency.

He looked out the window so he didn't have to see the knowing smile on Ghost's face. 

“Perhaps,” he said. His sensornet tingled when Ghost's hand landed on his own. The contact was unexpected and warm, and Prowl felt a yearning for connection well up inside him. Prowl turned his hand and captured Ghost's in a gentle, warm grip. He wasn't sure if he pulled Ghost closer, or if the other mech flowed toward him on his own, but a moment later Ghost's lips pressed against his. Prowl brought his other hand to Ghost's narrow waist and drew him against him. 

“The berth,” Ghost murmured against his lips. Prowl nodded. Ghost rose without disentangling himself, and Prowl found himself led in a brief, elegant dance as the lithe bot guided him to his feet and to the berth. Ghost's lips tasted of high-grade, intoxicating yet bitter to Prowl's glossa. His kiss was gentle where Lockdown's had been hard, curious where Lockdown's had been demanding. He sank down onto the berth with Ghost beneath him, and their bodies twined together almost lazily. Ghost's frame was a similar size and build to his own. His smooth curves felt pleasant under Prowl's hands. He slid his knee between Ghost's thighs. 

Ghost's hands ran up and down his back, and his supple body arched beneath him. Prowl bit Ghost's lip and knelt up. He pulled him with him, and Ghost made a small startled sound as he was pulled astride Prowl's lap. Kneeling, Prowl supported Ghost's lower back and the back of his helm. Ghost wrapped his arms around Prowl's neck and purred into the kiss. 

Prowl slipped his hand down over the curve of Ghost's aft, and the mech made a small sound and opened his panel. Prowl felt the heat between Ghost's legs, and ground the slim mech down onto him. Ghost caressed his helm with deft, light touches. Prowl nuzzled into his jaw and slid his own panel back. His spike pressurised, and Ghost reached down between them to guide him inside him. Prowl hissed as Ghost's tight slickness enveloped his length. He wrapped his arms tightly around Ghost's waist and rocked him. Ghost gripped his hips with his thighs and let Prowl set the pace. Prowl kissed him again. It was uncomplicated, simple pleasure, and Prowl was happy to lose himself in it, to simply sink into the warmth and easy intimacy as a way to assuage his loneliness. 

They rocked and ground together until Ghost was squirming and giving soft moans with every thrust. Prowl's system felt hot and his sensornet sizzled. He felt strong and alive. He growled and pushed Ghost down to the berth. Ghost wrapped his legs around Prowl's waist, and Prowl linked his fingers with Ghost's as he pressed his hands down. Overload hit him hard, and his frame shuddered and tensed as he came. He kissed Ghost roughly, and then bit his neck as the peak of his overload burned through him. Ghost writhed and panted beneath him. Prowl rocked and ground slowly as his high gradually dispersed, and then he relaxed down on top of Ghost's slender frame. Gradually, as Prowl came back to himself a little more, he became aware of Ghost's pained expression.

“Are you all right?” he said, his vocals still breathy as his intakes fought to regulate his core temperature.

Ghost nodded and met his optics. He gave a small, crooked smile. “You bit me.”

Prowl looked down. There was a bite mark on Ghost's slender neck that glowed pink with fresh energon. Guilt made Prowl feel queasy. “I'm sorry-”

“It's all right.” Ghost rocked his hips. “That was intense.”

Prowl carefully knelt up to give Ghost some space. He didn't say that he had found it pleasurable, but somehow... tame. He felt a flush of disgust at himself when that thought conjured the memory of pressing Lockdown to the forest floor, and with it a moment of wondering how a night with him would compare.

Perhaps Ghost saw the look on his face and interpreted it as anger, because he sat up gingerly and scooted away until his back rested on the berth's headboard. Prowl took a deep breath and banished all his traitorous thoughts of the hunter from his mind. What was wrong with him? He'd just interfaced with Ghost, a far better mech than Lockdown could ever hope to be. 

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Did you...?”

Ghost seemed to relax again, and he smiled broadly. “Oh yes.” He held out his hand and beckoned Prowl closer. Prowl gave in and crawled up the berth to join him. He sat by his side, and Ghost surprised him by draping himself over his chest. Prowl wrapped an arm loosely around Ghost's waist and tried to relax. He had expected the other mech to leave once they had finished, but Ghost seemed to be making himself comfortable on Prowl's berth. Ghost nuzzled into his neck, and Prowl tilted his head. “What are you thinking about?”

“Mm?” He realised he had been frowning, staring into the shadows of the room. “Just wondering how to handle the situation with Lockdown and Whipcord,” Prowl lied. “Cybertron is drawing closer.”

“Mmm.” Ghost stroked Prowl's chest-plate in a way that seemed almost possessive. Prowl felt wretched for thinking ill of the bot after what they had just shared. Ghost was only trying to do what was right, it was natural he wanted Prowl to join him. “I'm sure you'll make the right decision,” Ghost said. 

Prowl swallowed his reply to that, and made do with stroking Ghost's side. 

“Cybertron's still a long way off,” Ghost murmured. His hand wandered down Prowl's chassis, and then lower. Prowl stiffened, and then looked down to meet the mech's gaze. “There's not much else to do on this ship. Why don't we make the time pass a little easier?”

Prowl cycled a deep intake. He could ask Ghost to leave, so he could think and recharge in peace. But the thought of being left once more to the silence and solitude of his cold, dark chambers was somehow too much for him to face just then, and so he put on a small smile and squeezed Ghost's waist. Instead of replying, he leaned down and kissed him again. Ghost was languorous and practically purring as Prowl pulled him back into his lap. His smile, between kisses, was smooth and smug, and Prowl wondered what kind of a victory he thought he had just won.

*****

“I'm ready to try again,” Whipcord said. She had her hands on her hips, and stood in the middle of the workshop as if she owned the place. Lockdown reclined in his chair and whistled out a breath. 

“All right,” he said. “One more try. Then it's Cybertron.”

Whipcord scrunched up her face in sceptical disapproval. “Let's just try it,” she said. 

Lockdown nodded, and got to his feet as Whipcord sat down on a tall stool. He brought his tools and walked around until he was behind her. 

“How do you even know there's one there?” he asked. He manipulated a catch at the base of her helm, and the plates clicked and then opened out as though ready for a hard-line connection to her processor. 

“There has to be _something_. I don't remember what I should. I'm not a newspark, slag it, there have to be files I'm missing. Plus my head fragging aches all the time.”

“Mhm.” Lockdown carefully started to examine the exposed neural relays. “I think I need to go deeper.” He frowned. “Disable your sensors, but stay online. I've extracted neural chips before but never while the bot was online.” If that thought unsettled the femme, she gave no indication. “I'm guessin' Ghost's lot won't find you so valuable if you're broken when you get there.”

“Relax,” she said. Her impatience was clear in her voice. “They got it in there, didn't they? You can get it out again. Isn't this what you do for a living? Poking around in bots and pulling bits out?”

Lockdown grimaced. “Kinda. Ain't no-bot _asked_ me to do it before, though.” If he lobotomised the femme before they reached Cybertron, both Ghost and Prowl would kill him. He sighed, and got to work.

They had tried this a couple of times before. Each time he had hesitated to go too deeply or risk too much. Removing a weapon mod from a live bot was one thing, but digging around in their processor? He shook his head. 

“I'm pretty sure they'll find me _more_ valuable without this chip,” Whipcord said grimly. “And so will you.” Lockdown didn't reply as he worked, but the femme voiced his own suspicions anyway. “I think they want to know whatever I don't remember. I don't know if Ghost even knows, but I think that if the chip was functioning, I wouldn't even know it was there. And I would trust him completely-”

“Hold on.” Lockdown leaned closer. He had lifted away a delicate protoflesh layer, revealing an area of heavily modified circuitry. Nestled between clustered wires was a large chip that looked as though half of it had been burned away. “I think I found it. Hold still.” No time for hesitation now, and no time for doubt. Whipcord gripped the stool beneath her and tensed. Lockdown reached in and gripped the edges of the chip with a set of narrow forceps. “It's too tight in there to disconnect it wire by wire, but it looks busted anyway. I'm gonna lift it out and then seal up the broken lines.” Whipcord grunted in assent. Lockdown gripped the chip and pulled.

It came away surprisingly easily. Something had caused a short, and half the chip was blackened and destroyed. The wires linking it into her processor were similarly withered. He guessed whatever had caused that short had also bought the femme's freedom. 

He set the chip in a metal dish on his workbench, and did a quick patch job to seal up the space the chip had left. 

“How do you feel? Still tickin'?”

Whipcord raised her hand sand flexed her fingers. “Everything seems to still work,” she said slowly. “Seal me up.”

Lockdown replaced the protoflesh, tried to seal everything as neatly as he could, and then closed up her helm. She shook her head slowly from side to side, and then tilted it as though easing out an ache in her neck.

“The pain is gone,” she said. 

“Wanna see it?” Lockdown picked up the dish that held the chip. 

She twisted, and he held it up. She curled her lip in disgust. “Get rid of it.”

“Really?” He picked it up with the tips of his claws and held it to the light. 

“Really. It's broken, there's no value to it,” she said. “The money's all in here.” She tapped the side of her helm. She looked up and met his optics. Her gaze was hard and steady, with a steel in it that hadn't been there before. “Remember the deal.”

“I remember,” Lockdown said. He dropped the chip back into the dish, put it down, and wandered over to the shelves. He switched his second hand for his usual hook. “So, dredge up anythin' useful? Or am I shippin' you back to Cybertron with the wannabe ninja after all?”

“That's a bad deal.” Whipcord hopped to her feet. She rolled her shoulders. He looked at her, and thought she seemed more present, more _there_ than she had just moments ago. “You can have my memories,” she said. “All of them, if you want. It's like a block was just lifted away... everything's there. Most of it's nothing I want to keep." She grimaced. "You can't have me, though.” At the first sign of Lockdown's scowl, she laughed and went on, “I'll put 'em all on disk for you if you want. I think you'll be able to find a buyer with no trouble. I bet some bots will be _very_ interested...”

Lockdown wiped his hand and hook off on a rag. “And what do you want in return?”

Whipcord looked around at the stacks of mods, armour, and weapons lining the room. “I want my freedom.” 

“That's a lot to ask from a humble bounty hunter, femme.”

She laughed at him. “It's not a lot at all. Give me some mods, a new paint-job, a different helm. I'll change my name, and take off. I'll never darken your doorstep again, and you can sell my information on to whoever offers the most.”

Lockdown leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Ghost's option really don't appeal to you, then?”

Her gaze was piercing. “He doesn't want me. He wants what's in my head. I was wrong - I _don't_ know him. Not the way I thought. No, I'd be his hostage more than he'd be my guard. Why else would he go to all this trouble to free one lone slave?”

Lockdown cocked his head. “You must remember some pretty interesting things.”

“Oh, I do. I do, now. And they're going to be my ticket to freedom. So tell me, will you help me? Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand. 

Lockdown considered it for all of a nanoklik. He didn't trust Ghost. The only reason he'd agreed to his little crusade was because of Prowl, and so backing out of _that_ little arrangement didn't bother him at all. He also didn't really believe Ghost had the bounty he promised. Most likely the slimy little fragger would try to find some way to weasel out of payment when the handover came around. Lockdown had to think about his profits. Prowl would understand.

He crossed the room, reached out, and clasped Whipcord's hand in his. “Why the frag not? Sure. Deal.”


	11. The Lost Army

The Quintesson ship descended slowly. Vault watched from the hastily-built platform at the base of the Decepticons' tower. They were far beneath the raised dock most aerials and ships used, deeper than the city's jewel-hued lights could reach. Here, the shadows were thick and black, and the lights of the descending ship were dazzling as they illuminated the hidden world of the asteroid's surface. The design of the ship made it clear it was intended to drill into whatever earth it landed on, and so its approach had prompted the hurried clearing of a suitable space for it to touch down. The way down between the tower and the surrounding highways, cables, and floating landing pads was treacherous, but the ship's pilot negotiated the descent with remarkable competence. The ship slowed, and then there was a deafening hiss as its hover-gears activated, followed by the roar of its stabilising thrusters. Several of the assembled bots stepped back as the craft's creaking revolutions drilled it down into the hard, packed rock of the surface. Vault felt the ground tremble beneath his feet, but he kept his optics on the ship. 

It seemed an age before the vast craft's drill-point was fully embedded in the rock, enough to hold the ship upright and steady. To his left, Blitzwing watched the ship with cold anticipation. On his right, Cyclonus stood with his arms folded over his chest and his optics narrowed. 

Cyclonus had been reluctant to accept his and Blitzwing's story at first. He had sceptically listened to their tale of Starscream's return from death and his subsequent rescue of their leader Megatron. He had been particularly disbelieving to hear that Shockwave, the mech who had so insidiously usurped Megatron's rightful leadership, had died at Vault's own hands. Vault and Blitzwing had remained on Monacus, and submitted to all of Cyclonus's demands for information, co-operating to the best of their abilities, but in time the news feeds had done a better job of convincing Cyclonus and his loyalist army than either of them ever could. Even though the Autobot Command had tried to cover news of Akeron's explosive break-out, the bounties spoke for themselves. In the end, even the Guard had given in and issued their own price – higher than any of the private sums – and the rumours had become hard truth. Megatron lived, and walked free for the first time in a thousand years. And, risen from the Pit itself to fight at his master's side, was Starscream the Betrayer. Vault had seen the seeker rise to near-legendary status as his tales passed from bot to bot, embellished and expanded each time they were spun. It filled him with a curious sense of pride, and he did whatever he could to encourage the phenomenon.

Blitzwing had grown antsy and eager to press on toward Pyrovar. Megatron and Starscream had failed to rendezvous as planned, and each solar cycle that passed without them only exacerbated the triple-changer's anxiety. Vault had hidden his own worries and fears, and insisted they remain and wait. Starscream was not a reliable or honourable mech, but Vault had trusted his leader to return nonetheless. He _had_ to.

When they had caught the Decepticon signal ping on the tower's sensors, practically the whole base had scrambled. 

Now Vault watched as the airlock in the curved side of the ship hissed and then opened. Vapour from within poured out, and a ramp extended. He narrowed his optics, his spark in his mouth, and a figure stepped forward out of the mist. Beside him, Cyclonus sank to his knees. Megatron stood in the airlock, his figure painted in stark shadows but his bright optics piercing the darkness with red. Blitzwing stood to attention, and all around him an awe-filled hush fell. Vault searched the darkness behind Megatron as the big mech stepped forward. His spark sputtered, and then leapt. Following Megatron out of the ship came a second figure, and one Vault knew well. Starscream's frame bore the marks of hard damage, but he walked with his back straight and his wings up. As he stepped forward to Megatron's side, Vault saw him move with a halting, creaking limp.

Megatron strode down the ramp with slow, heavy steps. Behind them, other bots were appearing in the opening, but Vault's optics were on Starscream alone. While the other 'Cons stood rapt or else bowed on their knees, Vault flowed forward, so that when Starscream's damaged leg buckled on the sloped surface of the ramp, he was already there. He caught the seeker before he could tumble, and deftly tucked his shoulder beneath Starscream's arm. Starscream held onto him, and their optics met. The seeker was already bristling in humiliation, but no-bot was laughing. A hushed murmur resounded through the crowd. Vault slid his arm around Starscream's waist to better support him, and Starscream got his foot beneath him again.

As Starscream righted himself, Vault glanced up. Megatron's burning red gaze pinned him. For a moment he was frozen in the face of that unreadable stare, but then Starscream gripped him more tightly, and Vault's attention returned solely to him. Megatron could think what he liked, and to the Pit with him. Vault's duty was to Starscream.

He helped the seeker walk the remaining distance down the ramp to the cracked, dry earth, where he stood by Megatron's side as the rest of the bots filed from the ship. There were more than Vault had thought. He saw brightly painted roadsters stand shoulder-to-shoulder with aerials in Decepticon colours, saw crests of red and brands of purple both. All of them bore the marks of recent battle and patchy repairs, but all had the weary air of a long and hard-won victory. 

The silence amongst the assembled bots became absolute, and then Megatron's voice lifted in command, “Rise up.” All the kneeling bots slowly rose to their feet. As all optics turned their way, Starscream stood more erect, and fanned out his wings. Vault, confident Starscream could stand without a fall, released him and retreated to a place to Starscream's left and a step behind. Let every mech see him stand beside Megatron, he thought. Let every bot see him as Megatron's equal and more.

“Loyal Decepticons,” Megatron began. He surveyed the crowd, and glanced behind and beside him. “Your leaders have returned.” Starscream turned his head and watched Megatron as the Decepticons from the tower erupted into wild cheers. Some bots took up a chant of “Megatron lives”. 

Megatron held out his hands for quiet once more, but before he could launch into whatever address he had prepared, Starscream's voice rose above the din. “Silence!” Vault thought the hush that followed was more stunned than obedient. Suddenly all optics were on Starscream. “Now is not the time for speeches and fruitless posturing. Now is the time for action!” A few murmurings rippled through the crowd, but Starscream was undeterred. “A thousand stellar cycles have passed since the Battle of Earth, and the Allspark is _still_ in Autobot hands. A thousand stellar cycles, and where is the once mighty Decepticon army? Skulking and hiding in the shadows like cowards!” He flung out his clawed hands. “The time for words has passed! I, Starscream, have returned form the Well of All Sparks and done what you pitiful downgrades have failed to do in one thousand years. _I_ have freed Lord Megatron from the Autobots' shackles, _I_ have brought him here to you, and _I_ will lead you to victory at last!”

The crowd broke into an uproar. Cheers clamoured against cries of outrage. Megatron's optics were on Starscream, narrowed but appraising. 

“ _You_ would presume to lead us?” One voice, louder and clearer than the rest and explosive with rage, accused. Vault scanned the crowd, and saw Cyclonus stepping forward. He groaned inwardly, and took half a step forward, ready to fend off an attack if he needed to. Cyclonus seethed with righteous wrath. “You speak treason right before our rightful leader's optics. All know who you are, Starscream. Your crimes are no secret here. Do you really dare challenge Lord Megatron openly, in front of all of his most loyal?”

“I could if I wanted!” Starscream snarled. “If you're so loyal, why didn't _you_ fly to your leader's aid? Who are you to accuse _me_ -”

Cyclonus was going for his blades. Vault transformed his hand into a cudgel and tensed his frame, ready for the charge. “Everybot knows you're a traitor!” Cyclonus cried, and he took a step forward. 

“Cyclonus, stand down!” Megatron's vocals boomed, and the command reverberated around the dark, cavernous space. Cyclonus froze, and his round optics snapped to Megatron. The warlord stepped forward, and held out a hand to gesture both Cyclonus and Starscream to calm. “Did you think I would stand idly by and hear my authority undermined?” He spoke slowly, his vocals a smooth, deep rumble. “Starscream's crimes were grievous indeed, but he has more than proved himself to me since his return. He merely speaks the truth that shames you all – it _was_ Starscream who came to me in my hour of need, when all others had failed me. And yet it is not debt that motivates me when I say this: Starscream claims equal rank with my own. It is so, and any who challenge that order challenge _my_ will also.”

Instead of being mollified by Megatron's defence of him, Starscream vibrated with suppressed rage. “I can speak for myself,” he hissed.

“And I will tell them to listen,” Megatron said mildly, too low for most of the other bots to hear. He turned his optics on Starscream. “Isn't this what you wanted?”

Blitzwing drifted past Cyclonus to stand at Megatron's right. His quiet assertion of that post further undermined Cyclonus's grasp at command. The old mech needed to reassess his position in the command chain, Vault thought, and handle this very carefully if he didn't want to see everything he had fought to build and maintain crumble to dust around him. He saw him waver, but in the end his loyalty to Megatron won out. Cyclonus bowed his head, and said, “My apologies, Lord Megatron.” There was a painful pause, and then he added, “Lord Starscream.”

Vault smirked. The crowd seemed subdued following Megatron's pronouncement, and there were no further challenges to Starscream's authority. He was sure that doubts ran deep, but none were foolish enough to risk Megatron's wrath to voice them.

Megatron once again seized control. “We have travelled a long way to get here. Cyclonus, I trust your base can accommodate us?” At Cyclonus's dazed nod, Megatron continued, “Good. Assign quarters and fuel rations for Tappet and her bots.” He nodded toward a femme who had stepped forward. “As soon as possible, we will depart for New Kaon. That planet was once the heart of the Decepticon Empire, and it will be again.” Megatron's voice rose, and the troops' cries of enthusiasm were buoyed by it. “Cyclonus, how long to ready the fleet? Can we move at dawn?”

Cyclonus appeared harried, but he tried valiantly not to lose even more face in front of his leader. “Mighty One, for a force of this many, it will take time... We do not have the ships, the resources-”

Megatron held up his hand to cut short Cyclonus's floundering. “Prepare your fastest ship, then. I will depart, with Starscream and a small group of Decepticons, to secure the New Kaon base. The rest of you will follow after. We cannot delay any further than that.”

Cyclonus bent his head. “Yes, Lord Megatron. There is one ship available, our fastest warship. She is small but quick, my lord. A small cadre of officers could accompany you – I volunteer myself, master.” At this, he sank once more to his knees.

But Megatron shook his head. “I need you here, to organise my armada. No, select a unit for us and let us be on our way as soon as possible. What is the name of this ship?”

Cyclonus drew himself up straight again, and Vault saw the pride in his optics. “The _Rebellion_ , Lord Megatron.”

After that, Vault watched as the gathering transformed into simple celebration as somebot cracked open a crate of high-grade for a toast. His attention shifted back to Starscream, and he stepped closer to the seeker's side. Starscream surprised him by reaching out and grasping his arm. 

“I've had quite enough of this little circus,” Starscream hissed. 

Vault nodded. He linked Starscream's arm through his own and helped to support some of his weight. “What do you need?”

“Fuel. Recharge.” Starscream's vocals were strained, as if his energy reserves had been expended in his impassioned speech and now he was running on empty. Starscream swayed a little and Vault held onto him more tightly. 

“Come on,” he said. “The big mech can finish up here.” Starscream glanced at Megatron, and a look passed between them. Then Vault was leading Starscream away. Starscream moved slowly, his limp only one of his many injuries. Vault made for the base of the tower and the elevator that would take them up to the spire's top. “They got quarters ready when we received the communication you were coming. You're up top.” He got Starscream into the lift and hit the glyph for the top floor. Once the elevator doors closed, Starscream slumped against the wall, and Vault saw just how much he had been putting into appearing strong and vital. By the time the lift reached the top floor, Starscream was shaking. 

“Not far, Starscream,” Vault said softly. Starscream didn't bother to reply. He was conserving his energy. Vault got Starscream's arm over his shoulders, and wrapped his own around the seeker's waist. It was slow going to exit the lift and cross the penthouse suite to the wide bed, but once they made it he lowered Starscream onto the soft, flexible foam mattress, and sank to one knee in front of him. Starscream swayed where he sat.

“Energon,” he said. He took a deep breath as Vault rose and retrieved some of the cubes of mid-grade from a round table in the centre of the large room. He brought them back to Starscream and tumbled them onto the berth. Starscream claimed one, opened it, and drank deep. He immediately coughed, but after a pause he continued to drink, albeit more slowly. Vault sat down by his side. Starscream finished one cube and started on a second. Vault rested his elbows on his knees and waited. The quiet of the room was a welcome retreat from the clamour of the crowd outside, and in truth Vault was pleased to be away from the conflict and power-play for a while. He knew whose side he was on. It was such a departure from his past, always shifting and changing depending on the odds, but he found that it felt natural all the same. 

“Why Monacus?” Starscream said absently. Vault looked at him. He looked drawn and tired, operating on his last reserves. “Why is Cyclonus here? This place is one big target...”

Vault shrugged. “We're outside the Commonwealth here, beyond the Guard's jurisdiction. Blackarachnia told me the local private militias and security forces would be just as happy to see Guard ships as Decepticons would. Place is a lawless crime-haven, and the Guard is forced to look the other way...” 

“Hm.” Starscream eased himself down until he lay on his back across the berth. “Figures.” He breathed out in a sigh and closed his optics. “...This room was prepared for Megatron,” he said.

Vault smiled. “It was prepared for the Lord of the Decepticons,” he countered. “Now, Lords.” He shrugged. “No difference. So you have to bunk with Megatron for a while – nothing new there, right?” He looked down at Starscream, and his smile faded as he slowly took in the extent of his damage. “...What happened?”

Starscream was silent for a while, and then he said tiredly, “You really want to know?”

“Only if you want to tell me,” Vault replied.

Another silence, and then, “Not right now.” He shuttered his optics. “Keep watch for me. Need to recharge...”

Vault rose from the berth and dimmed the lights. By the time he had completed his circuit of the room, Starscream was already deeply asleep. Vault smiled and watched the battered seeker sprawled out on the bed for a while, and then he found a chair and sank down into it. Down below, the revelry continued. The Monacus cell of the once-lost Decepticon army was rejoicing in the return of their leadership. Starscream would have been down there if he could, he reflected. His absence would be marked, and he would lose an opportunity to cement himself in their minds as Megatron's equal. 

Vault cast his optics over Starscream's injuries. The seeker had barely been able to stand. Vault had never seen Starscream in such a state. Even after his battle with the seekers of Xerissa, Starscream had still been functional and proud enough to return to the city on his feet, if not on the wing.

The night darkened, but Vault didn't sleep. It was several joors later when Starscream began to stir. Vault moved from the chair to the side of the bed. Starscream hadn't woken, but his brow was creased in a pained frown. He twitched as if in a dream, and Vault watched his expression turn to one of pain, then terror. Vault took a quick intake and sat down on the berthside. He felt like an intruder, seeing Starscream so vulnerable without the seeker's leave. His spark ached, and it hurt to wonder what memories haunted the seeker's nightmares. 

He reached out and set his hand upon Starscream's brow. Starscream startled awake suddenly at the touch. His body was tense and ready for attack, his optics darting. “Megatron?” The look on Starscream's face was naked fear clashed with confusion. His gaze found Vault and recognition seemed to dawn, but then his optics blazed with a hostility Vault had never seen turned on him. Starscream's hand jerked out and closed around Vault's throat, and Vault helplessly allowed the seeker to pull him down. 

He held himself still, and said in a soft voice, “It's me, Starscream. It's Vault.” Starscream held himself taut as an energy-bow string, and his grip on Vault's throat didn't lessen. “It's your Vault...” His fingertips touched Starscream's helm, and the contact seemed to break the spell Starscream's dream memories held over the seeker. Starscream took a deep intake, and his face crumpled.

“Did you know?” he croaked. 

Vault swallowed, and felt the press of Starscream's fingers. “No... Starscream, no.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Starscream's vocals were a desperate whisper. “Did you send me there-” His hand tightened in a silent threat. Vault shook his head and held Starscream's gaze. Guilt closed its icy grip around his spark. He didn't know what had happened to Starscream, but whatever it was, it had been his fault. It had been his idea, he had sent Starscream to that planet. He didn't try to push Starscream away or break free; if he had sent Starscream into hell knowingly then he deserved his death. 

“Starscream... No. I didn't know, I didn't...” He bowed his head, his face screwed up in anguish. “I'm loyal, Starscream. I'm loyal, I'm yours...” 

There was nothing more he could say, save throwing himself at Starscream's feet and begging forgiveness. He considered it, but Starscream's grip on him was tight. Starscream lay still for a long time, and then he took a deep and shuddering breath. Vault lifted his head. Starscream moved his hand from Vault's throat to the brand on his chest. 

“Thank Primus,” Starscream whispered. His optics were haunted, and when Vault pulled him into his arms he came willingly. Vault leaned back against the headboard, bringing Starscream with him and holding him as tight as he dared. Starscream lay across his chest, his frame slumped and shaking with exhaustion, and tucked his helm into the crook of Vault's neck.

After several kliks, Starscream's nervous trembling ceased, and his intakes evened out. Vault stroked the back of Starscream's helm and didn't speak. His expression, as he stared into the shadowed room, was grave. He didn't feel worthy of Starscream's trust in him, and he was humbled that he still had it.

A few moments more, and Starscream looked up at him. His optics held a challenge, and Vault knew he was waiting for some biting comment, some mockery of the weakness he had shown. Waiting for him to undermine the loyalty he had just sworn. He would hear nothing of the sort. Vault had meant what he said. The brand on his chest meant he was Starscream's sword and shield, and unlike his previous oaths, this vow went more than armour-deep.

He cupped Starscream's face and dipped his head to kiss him. Starscream melted into it all too eagerly. He held onto Vault, and the warmth with which he deepened the kiss betrayed his need for reassurance. Vault was happy to hold him and try to help him forget whatever horrors lingered from his dreams. Starscream stroked the sides of his helm, and after a while he moved until he sat astride Vault's hips. Vault ran his hands over Starscream's battered frame, finding his lover just as beautiful and strong as he had been before his ordeal. When his fingertips brushed Starscream's crudely repaired wings, he felt them flutter under his touch. The plating had been stripped away on one of the beautiful wings, and replaced with a foil-like temporary skin. He mourned the loss of the glorious tattoos Starscream had received as a gift from the Xerissan jets, but that was a passing concern compared to the knowledge of how much it must have hurt. Starscream's body was a map of suffering, his every wound and repair testament to what he had endured. Vault's frame ached with guilt and shame, but he held his silence. He closed his optics, and touched Starscream with careful hands. 

Starscream wrapped his arms around Vault's neck, and his thighs pressed against Vault's hips. Vault worshipped the seeker's wings with gentle strokes. As Starscream relaxed, he became more assertive. Vault welcomed it, welcomed the seeker's claim on him, and he did all he could to ground Starscream in the present moment, in the rare, true intimacy and trust he offered up.

Starscream pressed his frame tightly against Vault's. Vault left off worshipping Starscream's wings in favour of wrapping his arms around the seeker's narrow waist. He lifted him a little, and Starscream nodded his assent. They needed this, he thought. Vault certainly did. 

He unsheathed himself, and Starscream opened up. Vault lowered Starscream down slowly. Starscream made a soft sound and tightened his grip on him as Vault's spike slid home. Vault exhaled, his helm leaning against Starscream's. He pressed his hands against Starscream's back to keep him close, and Starscream mouthed the cables of Vault's neck. Vault shivered to feel the heat of his breath. Starscream's valve was tight and warm around his spike, and Starscream rocked his hips in small, rolling movements that Vault answered, easily finding a harmony between them. Vault slipped one hand down between their frames. Starscream kept his spike hidden this time, but Vault's blunt fingers found the little sensor-cluster tucked up at the front of Starscream's valve. He rubbed gently and was rewarded with a shuddering moan from Starscream. Vault smiled. They settled into their rhythm, and Vault buried his face against Starscream's neck as his charge slowly built. Starscream's core temperature rose more quickly, and soon he was gasping and his valve was pulsing tightly around Vault's spike. Vault murmured worshipful praise into Starscream's audio. Starscream moaned in response, and Vault ground his hips in a way he knew Starscream liked, still rubbing his anterior node. Starscream clutched at his shoulders, and Vault felt him tighten and pulse as he came. Vault gripped the back of Starscream's helm and pulled him into a kiss. Starscream stayed tight around him as he overloaded, his body arching in pure, cleansing bliss. 

As they both floated down from their overloads, Vault slid down the berth until he could lie flat, with Starscream slumped atop him. The seeker nuzzled against his jaw and ran his fingers over Vault's shoulders in possessive affection. The tension in Vault's spark lifted enough to allow him a measure of peace. It was good to be reunited with his leader.

*****

Vault wasn't aware of falling asleep, but he awoke to the chirrup of his internal comm unit as he received a hail. He accepted it, more by instinct than awareness, and Blitzwing's crisp vocals informed him, “Coming up.”

Vault groaned. So the festivities downstairs had finally ended, and the other Lord of the Decepticons had decided to retire to his rooms. Vault raised his head and cast a bleary optic around the room. All was spotless aside from the rumpled berth where he and Starscream still lay. Reluctant for the old mech to walk in on them still entangled in obvious post-frag disarray, and grateful for Blitzwing's warning, he gave Starscream a gentle shake.

“Starscream,” he whispered. He cupped the seeker's face. Starscream stirred, and his optics onlined. He looked up at him, and this time recognition was instant and warm, without a trace of the deadly recollection and suspicion that had seized him before. A small and satisfied smile curved Starscream's lips. “Incoming, Starscream. We've got company – or we will soon.”

“Mmm.” Starscream stretched languidly. “Five more kliks.”

Vault chuckled and stroked Starscream's helm. “Come on, Starscream. Megatron's on his way up.”

Starscream took a breath. He pushed himself up, and then looked down at their frames, still joined as they were. “Ah.” He sighed. “Fragger always gets in the way.” He slid himself off Vault's spike, closed his panel, and then rolled onto his back on the berth beside Vault. Vault swung his legs off the berth and closed himself up just as the door mechanism chimed as it was keyed open. He made a passable attempt at standing to attention as Megatron entered. Blitzwing, a pace behind him, lingered at the door.

Megatron met Vault's optics. Then his gaze slid to Starscream. Vault saw their optics meet, but he could only guess at whatever passed between them in that loaded moment. 

“Starscream,” Megatron said. “I thought you were resting.” Vault was almost alarmed to hear a hint of true concern in the old warlord's vocals. He glanced around at Starscream.

“I couldn't sleep.” Starscream sat up slowly and raised one brow in a wry challenge. To Vault's surprise, Megatron only nodded. It was a stab to his already aching spark to realise Megatron probably understood more of Starscream's pain than Vault could, despite his efforts to ease it – whatever had happened to them in their time away, they had gone through it together. As far as Vault knew, it was a secret they kept between them. That simple fact made Vault himself an outsider. He acknowledged that, and swallowed his stung pride. He couldn't possibly hope to untangle the mess of that pair's relationship, and nor did he care to try. It was what it was, and it changed his role not at all. As long as Starscream needed him, Vault would stay at his side. Starscream deserved that much of him.

Starscream gave Vault a nod to dismiss him. Vault bowed his head once, and then went with Blitzwing back to their shared chambers. He was grateful Blitzwing chose not to speak. He wouldn't appreciate his grinning face's raucous comments just then.

When they reached their rooms, he retired without a word. He felt exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical fatigue. It was a spark-deep ache, and it haunted him well into his restless sleep.


	12. Flight

“Well, what's wrong with it?” Prowl enquired.

“I don't know, that's the fraggin' problem!” Lockdown waved his wrench and Prowl backed off. He exchanged a look with Ghost, and shrugged. The _Death's Head_ 's engines had been juddering worryingly for the past few joors, and now it seemed they had stopped completely. 

“Come on,” he said softly to Ghost. “There's nothing we can do right now.”

Ghost nodded and followed Prowl placidly to the workshop which also doubled as the ship's bridge. Prowl crossed to the nav terminal. 

“Perhaps if we can find a space-port nearby...” he said absently as he leaned over the terminal, tapping at glyphs. It no longer even struck him as strange that by this point he knew his way around the ship's controls almost as well as Lockdown. It was simply unfortunate he couldn't say the same about the vessel's engines and more intricate workings. 

Ghost lagged behind, his optics scanning the crowded shelves around the room. Even after travelling this long aboard the ship, he remained suspicious and wary, still an outsider. As if to offer a contrast, Whipcord chose this moment to appear, towelling her helm and frame which still gleamed from the wash-racks. She walked with a confident swagger, clearly quite at ease. 

“What's happening?” she asked. She clapped Ghost on the shoulder as she passed him, and Prowl glanced back just in time to see the dancer bristle. 

“Engine trouble,” Prowl replied. “Lockdown's working on it.” 

He looked at her as she leant on the terminal and inspected the star-chart he had called up onto the viz-screen. She pointed to a tiny cluster of lights on the chart. “There's a port there. I... I remember.”

“You think we can find repairs there?” Prowl said. Whipcord grinned at him and nodded. Prowl looked back at the display. “It's not far. If Lockdown can just get the ship running long enough to-”

He halted as the ship gave a great heaving shudder, and the engines growled to life. There was a rough screeching beneath the usual heavy thrum that made Prowl wince.

“Haha! You were saying?” Whipcord beamed. “We should be there by the end of the cycle.”

“Doubtful, in this hunk of junk,” Ghost muttered. 

Prowl turned and folded his arms, surprised at the level of disapproval he felt. The _Death's Head_ was an old ship, but she was mostly reliable. He curled his lip, and said, “Why don't you go and see if there's anything you can do to help, if you want to get there sooner?” He felt a vindictive pleasure at Ghost's stricken look.

Ghost was saved from the prospect of that ordeal by Lockdown's appearance. He was wiping his hand, smeared with oil, on a rag. He looked worried. “That should keep her goin' till we can dock her somewhere. It's just a rough patch-job, though. I'll need to open her up for real and dig around in there... maybe one o' those parts we got off that freighter was a dud.”

“Whipcord's found a space-port,” Prowl said. He gestured to the chart. “Do you think the ship can make it this far?”

Lockdown leaned in and peered at the screen. He stood in between Prowl and Whipcord, while Ghost hovered several feet away. “Huh. Should be all right,” he said. He turned to Prowl. “Hey, why don't you take Ghost down to the hold and keep siftin' through the rest o' the parts? We might not be able to find a replacement for whatever's broken at the port.”

Prowl's satisfaction immediately left him, and he cast a sour look at Ghost. “Come on,” he said. Ghost preceded him out of the workshop, and the doors slid shut behind him, leaving Lockdown and Whipcord once again ensconced. Prowl snarled. “Go ahead without me,” he said to Ghost. The dancer raised a brow, but Prowl shook his head. “There's just something I need to check on first...”

“Ah yes,” Ghost said. A knowing look spread across his face. “Your own conclusions. I almost forgot. I'll see you in the hold, then.” He rolled his optics, his views on their menial task quite clear. Even so, he went, fading into the floor rather than taking the ladder. Prowl waited a beat until he was sure Ghost had gone, before turning and stalking down a corridor parallel to the workshop. There was another entrance into the room – Prowl had used it the first time he had sneaked on board the _Death's Head_ , so long ago. The very first time he had offered to be Lockdown's partner in the hunt for Starscream. 

He moved silently as he climbed above the workshop, crawling through a tight and seldom-used vent shaft. He reached the place where the floor became a fine grille looking down over a dark corner of the workshop below. He schooled himself to silence and stillness. First, he only crouched there and listened. Lockdown was pacing around the room; Prowl recognised his heavy tread. He peered through the grille, but the angle was bad and the shadows were thick in this part of the room. 

“Come on, you have to admit it,” Whipcord was saying. “It makes sense. This way you don't have to go to all the trouble of smuggling me through the Guard's border checks, and I don't have to wrangle with whatever malfunctions Ghost is working for. What's holding you back?” Prowl silently eased the grille out of place, and sank down into the hole it had occupied. He descended into shadow, using his holo-projector to conceal himself further as he landed atop a rusted bank of machinery. “It's the kid, isn't it?”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by Lockdown's pacing steps. “...All right. Let's see if it fits now.”

Prowl knelt down in his shadowed corner. To anybot looking, there was nothing there except an old, broken generator. Prowl made himself small within his holographic disguise; he could see both bots now. Lockdown was bringing something out from the shelves of mods. He turned his back, and Prowl inwardly cursed as his line of vision was obstructed again. 

“It's not bad,” Whipcord said. “For a last minute job.”

“You're just lucky I had somethin' lyin' around that'd fit you. Only had 'em in case I could sell 'em on.” Lockdown sighed. “That's one more profit I'll lose out on.”

“You made the deal, hunter. And you know those disks will fetch more than some second-hand armour.”

“So you say.”

“You viewed 'em, didn't you?”

A silence, and then, “I saw enough. The locations are the good stuff. I don't care much for the nitty-gritty.”

Whipcord grunted, and paced into Prowl's line of sight. Except, she didn’t' look like Whipcord. The femme in the workshop was even more heavily built than Whipcord was, her armour accentuating her strength rather than her curves. The plating was mismatched, white, green and red where her base colours remained violet and gold, but the effect of the new mods and replacement helm made her a whole new bot already. She paced a restless circle, rolling her joints and flexing her arms, clearly testing out the feel of the new kit. 

Lockdown watched her with a critical look. “Needs a lick of paint,” he said. “You look almost as mismatched as me.”

“Primus forbid,” Whipcord laughed. 

“All right, all right. C'mon then, let me get the last bytes of data.”

Whipcord sat down on the workbench without a word of protest. Before Prowl's horrified optics, she removed her new helm and revealed the pulsing violet lights of the neural net beneath. Parts of her head unit unfolded, revealing rows of hard-line connector ports usually intended only for initial data upload in the protoform stage. Such connectors were largely a relic from a bygone age, when the brutality of hard-line processor-to-processor connection wasn't considered as invasive an intrusion as it was today. 

Prowl's tank roiled in disgust. What kind of desperate deal had the femme and the hunter struck? Lockdown connected her to the main terminal using a thick cable, and Whipcord winced as the jack went into her neural port. Prowl recoiled instinctively, a tiny, jerky movement. His projection didn't falter. 

Lockdown turned and fired his hook into the wall by Prowl's head. Prowl ducked just in time. The line on the hook pulled taut as the hunter started to reel it back, but the point was wedged into the wall.

“Thought I told you to check on the hold, Prowl,” Lockdown growled. 

Prowl hissed. He dropped his projection and darted from his hiding place. He rolled, and landed on the workshop floor in a crouch. His blade shot out, and when he straightened he had it levelled, its point a breath from Lockdown's throat. His visor blazed blue-white as he held Lockdown's gaze.

“Get away from her,” Prowl said.

Lockdown stared at him. “Don't do anythin' stupid,” he said. He yanked his hook from the wall and it snapped back into place. Prowl didn't flinch. Lockdown didn't raise a weapon in threat, but Prowl knew it took only a beat to power up his saw. He kept his blade high.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. He gestured to Whipcord with his free hand. “What in spark are you doing to her?”

“Now, now,” Lockdown said with a sneer. “Don't get your circuits in a bunch. Whip and I are in the middle of a transaction.”

Prowl glanced at the femme. Her optics were glazed, staring somewhere far away, and her expression was tormented. “Disconnect her. You can see she's in pain.”

“Hm. More like she's relivin' some painful memory files. If I still had my EMP I could wipe those out for her. In the circumstances it might even be for the best-”

“It was _Ratchet's_ EMP, and you would do nothing of the sort!” Prowl slowly circled the hunter, keeping his blade up. Lockdown watched him. When Prowl was at Whipcord's side, his optics darted to the crude connection the hunter had rigged. “I'm disconnecting her.”

Lockdown looked up to the viz-screen. It displayed a progress bar that blinked softly, stating that the download was one hundred percent complete. “Fine, go ahead. Watch you don't scratch the internal connectors.” Prowl reached out and grasped the cable jack. His tank turned over, but then he firmed his grip and pulled. 

Whipcord's optics flashed and she gasped as Prowl drew out the connector. She looked around as if stunned to find herself where she was. 

“What happened? Where-? What?” Her optics fixed on Prowl, and then on his blade. She gave a low growl and shot to her feet, and darted several paces away from Prowl. Prowl heard the hum of her gun arm powering up. He swiftly retracted his blade and held his hands up. 

“I won't harm you,” he said quickly. 

“Damn right you won't,” Lockdown growled. He stepped in, crowding Prowl. “Stand down before you do somethin' all of us will regret. Ain't no danger here save you.”

Prowl stared up at him. He didn't understand, and his confusion made him hesitate. Lockdown stared him down, and after a tense klik, Prowl took a step back. He looked away, conceding the hunter's victory. This time. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and hunched his shoulders. “Explain,” he said.

Lockdown backed off, and Whipcord grudgingly came back. She disengaged her gun, and reached up to pat her exposed circuitry. She gasped, and then grabbed for her new helm on the workbench. Prowl averted his optics until she put it on.

“Your partner and I cut a deal,” she said. Lockdown snorted and turned away, and began a restless circuit of the room. “Sorry to go behind your back like that.” She didn't sound regretful at all, Prowl thought. He watched her through narrowed optics and wondered if anything he knew about her was true. She jerked her thumb toward Lockdown. “He thought you'd disapprove.”

Lockdown grunted. He turned back and met Prowl's accusing gaze. “Cool your jets, kid. Whip's memories were being jammed by one o' those Quint slave chips. I took it out for her, an' now she wants to sell her memories in return for a few mods. It's simple business.”

Prowl frowned. “I don't... understand,” he said. “Why the secrecy? And what memories?”

Whipcord smiled in a way that made Prowl feel like an ignorant, indulged sparkling. It made his lines boil. His processor took in the femme's new configuration and made the leap: Whipcord was leaving. “Ghost has to know,” he blurted. 

Whipcord's optics widened, and Lockdown snapped, “No!”

Prowl was already striding toward the door. “Why not? There must be something in those files, some reason why you're hiding this!” 

Lockdown's arm was suddenly in front of him, barring his way. Prowl snarled and ducked beneath it, only to have the hunter try to grab him. Prowl rounded on him and for a moment they grappled and traded abortive blows. Lockdown pinned him to the door, and Prowl couldn't free himself without damaging the hunter. 

“Maybe there _is_ somethin' in those files. Something _valuable_.”

“So you've trapped her into letting you plunder her mind and sell off her memories for the sake of your precious profits?” Prowl spat. 

“Enough!” Whipcord snapped. “Prowl. When I got my memories back I realised Ghost is _not_ everything he seems. He's lying when he says I have kin on Cybertron. What kin would a Decepticon ever have there, outside of Trypticon and the labour pits?”

Prowl focused on her. He relaxed, and Lockdown eased off his hold on him. They were both venting hard, and Prowl tried not to think about the proximity of his frame, or the way he could suddenly sense the thundering of fuel through his lines or the blazing heat of his spark. His extra-sensory awareness seemed to flare in combat, and it was only with a conscious will that he stilled his sensors back down to a normal level.

“I know,” he said. “He told me-... He told me there's a safe-house there for slaves escaping their masters.”

Whipcord curled her lip. “Maybe there is. But any safe-house on Cybertron is too much under the Council's nose for me. Sounds to me like they want to round us up somewhere they can get at us easy-like.”

Prowl was unconvinced. “Slavery is illegal on Cybertron,” he said, but even he knew it sounded weak. 

Lockdown stepped away from him, and Prowl found himself free of the hunter's grip, if not the pulsing awareness of his frame. “The stuff in Whip's memory core is no good to Autobots. I'd bet good creds it's slag they already knew,” Lockdown said. “But somebot else just might be interested. Maybe even Ghost's lot, if they're willin' to fork up the cash. I don't know about you, but I'd prefer to ransom valuable intel for a high price rather than handin' over a hostage and waitin' for a bounty that never comes. At least this way, if they don't wanna pay, I can take my business elsewhere.”

Prowl was still frowning. “But what about Whipcord?” He looked at the femme. “Where do you fit into this little... transaction?”

“Hopefully?” Whipcord said. “Nowhere. Cybertron's no place for stolen property like me. And as long as anybot knows where I am, I'm going to have somebot on my trail. If it's not that greasy little fragger, it's the council, or more hunters.”

“So you're leaving,” Prowl finished for her. He gestured to her new, mismatched mods. “You're going to slip away and become somebot else.”

Whipcord nodded. “Not settled on a name, yet, but do you like the new look?” She flexed her strong arms and grinned savagely.

Prowl shook his head, smiling dazedly. “How about 'Switch'?” he muttered. Whipcord's laughter boomed. Prowl looked down and stretched a kink out of his shoulder. “When are you planning on leaving?” he asked.

“Space port we're coming up on seems like as good a place as any,” the femme said. 

Prowl nodded. He felt unsettled, as though things were rushing along ahead of him, without him. He was stung that Lockdown had done this behind his back, and yet he knew he had no reason for resentment – theirs was a sham of a partnership, after all. He looked at the hunter now. “We'll still need to deal with Ghost, you know,” he said flatly.

“Sure you can handle that,” Lockdown drawled. Prowl looked at him, but Lockdown looked away. Prowl sneered, and told himself he cared little for whatever Lockdown might think about himself and Ghost.

He pressed his fingers to his temple for a moment to calm himself, and then sighed. “How long until we reach the space port?”

“Few joors,” Whipcord said. 

“Best check that cargo,” Lockdown said. His back was still to Prowl as he sorted through some loose mods on one of the shelves. Or made a show of doing so, in any case. Prowl was being dismissed. Again. He growled, clenched his fists, and stalked to the door. 

He didn't look back as he stormed from the workshop and down into the bowels of the ship toward the hold. Ghost was in the middle of the large space, seated cross-legged amidst a pile of what looked to Prowl like junk. His head was bowed over some component he held in his hands. Prowl lingered at the blast doors for a moment and watched him in silence. Ghost was turned slightly away from him, but Prowl could still see his elegant profile. His facial structure was fine, his cheek-plates high and his mouth pleasantly full. His plating was pale gold and white, and had once clearly gleamed with all the glory of its no-doubt highly expensive finish. Now his armour was dull, the silver-white more a faded grey, the gold muted. The small crest at the front of his helm and the sweeping lines curving back from it still glinted in the hold's dim light. 

“You're Towers built,” Prowl said as he advanced into the hold. He deliberately spoke up, as his silent approach would have spooked the deceptively dangerous little mech. 

Ghost's head snapped up, and his golden optics flared slightly as they took in Prowl. “What of it?” he said. 

Prowl walked closer. His frame still zipped with anxious energy – a combination of his reaction to the scuffle with Lockdown and his anger at his subsequent dismissal and exclusion – but he forced himself to move in a non-threatening manner rather than his now customary sulking stalk. From the wary glint in Ghost's optics, he wasn't sure he succeeded. Prowl crouched down beside the mech.

“Just wondering what a well-off Towers mech was doing dancing for lowlifes like Lockdown in that bar,” Prowl said. “You're out of your element, aren't you?”

Ghost pursed his lips, studied Prowl for a long moment, and then gave a heavy sigh. “And out of my depth,” he said. His shoulders slumped. “Do you have any idea what... what it's like to start out on something, only to find your path-”

“So twisted and turned you have no idea where you are...?” Prowl finished for him. Ghost's words brought bittersweet files to the fore of Prowl's memory. The sentiment probably applied to his own life even more now than it had when he had first spat them at Optimus, and yet he found himself smiling in spite of that. He had been such a protoform, so lost and angry even after a million years of wandering. But then again, had anything really changed? He sighed and shook his head. He placed his hand on Ghost's shoulder. “Oddly enough, I do,” he said. “I can't say it gets easier, but perhaps I understand.”

Ghost scoffed, but he didn't shrug Prowl away. “I'm one of the good guys, Prowl,” Ghost said. He kept his golden optics down, focusing on the engine part he turned distractedly in his hands. His vocals were flat, and almost pained. “What did you decide?”

Prowl raised his optics to the shadowy ceiling. It was dark in the hold, murky and hot from the ship's engines nearby. He should tell Ghost about Whipcord's plan to leave, about her deal with Lockdown to sell her information. He should spill the whole thing wide, and let Ghost deal with it. He glanced at the mech. He couldn't do it.

“Whipcord has recovered her memories,” he said. He watched Ghost closely. He saw the mech stiffen up, saw the anxious flicker in his optics as he turned to him. When Ghost offered no verbal response, Prowl said, “We'll be stopping at the space port in a couple of joors.”

“And then on to Cybertron,” Ghost murmured.

“Perhaps.” Prowl met Ghost's optics, and his own gaze was hard. For some reason Prowl didn't want to disclose Whipcord's plan. It was her life, and trapping her into Ghost's custody felt no better than condemning her once more to her former masters' care – neither was a path she chose for herself. Prowl decided he made a rather pitiful bounty hunter. 

Ghost seemed to take his meaning. He nodded sadly. Prowl squeezed his shoulder, and the slender bot leaned toward him. Prowl cupped his chin with his other hand and pulled him into a slow kiss. He eased Ghost onto his back, never breaking that kiss, and Ghost's arms wrapped around him. This time, when they came together, it wasn't only Prowl's loneliness that was eased.

*****

The space port, when they came to it, could barely be called even that. Rather ambitiously named the Falling Star, it was a small refuelling stop on what had once been a little-used space-route between Cybertron and the outer rim. They drifted the _Death's Head_ up to a dock clustered with battered freighters and clunking old salvage ships, found a spot, and let the overtaxed ship power down.

Prowl met Lockdown and Whipcord by the main airlock, checking their mods and weapons. Whipcord looked a changed bot since Prowl had first hunted her down – gone was the stocky but sleek bot in Decepticon violet, and in her place was a broad-shouldered warrior in white, red, and green. Her optics still glittered Decepticon red, but Prowl knew that the colour of a bot's optics didn't necessarily indicate their faction loyalty. Lockdown glanced up at him and grinned, as if to prove the point.

“Ready to roll?” Lockdown asked. Prowl nodded. Lockdown glanced past him, and Prowl's sensors informed him of Ghost's silent arrival. “C'mon, kid.”

The airlock opened, and Prowl followed Lockdown and Whipcord through a docking tunnel and into the port's main concourse. It was as busy and airless as the crowded dock had suggested, and Prowl held himself tense as he wove his way between bots and organics alike. Ghost was a nervous presence at his elbow as they advanced, as if looking to him for protection.

Prowl lengthened his stride and caught up with Lockdown. He told himself it wasn't to get away from Ghost. “So you know where to find the parts we need?” he asked the hunter.

Lockdown shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Might take some time to ask around. You and the kid might as well go find somethin' to do to pass the time. I'm sure you can think of something.”

“You want him out of the way,” Prowl said flatly. He kept his vocals low, and prayed Ghost wouldn't hear.

“Think that might be best,” Lockdown replied. He didn't make optic-contact.

They had passed through the rough, crowded docks into the station's central hub. It was a large round chamber with shops and business facing onto it, and a broad balcony forming a second level. Arching above, the ceiling was a dark tangle of girders, power cables, and ancient structural metalwork. Light came from exposed strips on the walls, bathing the dingy space in a dull and eerie blue glow. The crowds were thinner here – bots milled around looking for fuel, berths, and berthmates, but the bulk of the station's commerce clearly happened dockside. 

They were barely two steps inside when a voice rang from the balcony and halted them in their tracks. “There! Those are the bots from that piece of slag junker outside, they're the ones we're looking for.”

Prowl's optics snapped up. On the balcony stood a group of mechs, combat-builds in murky colours. The light of the mercenaries' varicoloured optics glittered off the barrels of ready-charged weapons. Prowl extended his energy-blade on instinct, and sank into a predator's crouch. 

“The femme is the one we're here for,” called another voice. “Kill the rest.”

Lockdown pushed Prowl back as the first volley of laser-fire rained down. Prowl stumbled through Ghost, whose phase-shifter made him insubstantial as a hologram. Prowl found his feet and tried to grab the other bot and pull him to the relative safety beneath the balcony, but his hand closed on only air. Prowl didn't wait; he dashed beneath the mezzanine and pressed his back to the wall, and then immediately started looking for a way up. 

Lockdown joined him a couple of beats later, toting a plasma rifle he had procured from somewhere and grinning. “C'mon, we can get up that way and get the jump on them.” He nodded toward a passage at the far end of the room. 

“Where's Whipcord?” Prowl snapped. Lockdown nodded, and Prowl followed with his optics just in time to see the red and green femme trading fire with a group of mercenaries who'd just entered from the direction of the docks. Prowl cried out when he saw a bright shape cut through the thugs; Ghost had his knives out, but they weren't going to get him far in a gunfight. “We have to help them-” One of the big mercs was about to grab Ghost, when suddenly a blast from Whip's gun took his head right off his shoulders. Ghost dived forward and grabbed Whipcord's wrist, and the two of them disappeared through the floor, Ghost's phase-shifter carrying them both out of the battle and into the halls beneath. 

“Don't worry about them,” Lockdown said. “Worry about us!” He turned and ran for the stairs to the balcony, and Prowl followed. They met the slaver thugs coming down, but by the time Prowl reached the passage Lockdown had already shouldered his way through most of them. Prowl was about to follow him up the stairs, when his spark-sense made him spin around. Of the group Whip had been fighting, four were still online. Cheated of their real mark, it seemed they were happy to close in on anybot else she had been with. Prowl left Lockdown to his own battles and drew his blade. 

The battle was noisy and chaotic, and Prowl was fighting against bots with blasters and cannons. He used speed and deception to twist them in circles, jabbing and slicing wherever he saw an opportunity. More bots kept appearing from the dock, though in the chaos Prowl wasn't able to keep track of how many he was fighting. He tuned out the noise of a station in uproar, and found his focus. Even so, after some time he found himself encircled, foes closing in around him on all sides. Their faces were masks of vicious arrogance, and the muzzles of their guns were smoking. He saw in their optics they would toy with him if they could, capture him if they fancied. It wasn't overly far to Naresus or Andala, and if they returned to their employers without Whipcord, then perhaps they could take a replacement instead. 

Prowl crouched low, his blade up before him, his shield out. A low growl found its way out of his throat, and he bared his teeth. He watched them as they inched toward him, slow in their cocky complacence. From the balcony, an explosion bloomed. The mercs' optics turned, and Prowl glanced up also. Lockdown was swearing and yelling; a grenade had caught his saw arm, and he was on the back foot, retreating toward the balcony's edge. Prowl snarled. The mercs turned back to him, and before they could attack, Prowl thrust his mind out like a weapon. He _pushed_ , and the thugs surrounding him toppled as if they had been hit, energon streaming from their optics. Prowl jumped, engaged his boosters, and surged upward. Throwing stars took out one of the bots on the balcony, and Prowl landed on one knee in front of the hunter, facing his enemies. 

“Slag, Prowl,” Lockdown snarled. “I had it under control.”

“Now we both do,” Prowl replied. “What's the plan? Should we go after Whipcord and Ghost?”

“Whip don't want to be chased, so I figure she'll deal with Ghost herself.” Lockdown moved away from the edge and worked a kink from his neck. The stunned mercs were recovering, and it wouldn't be long before station security descended to lock up the stragglers – themselves included. “Way I see it, we have some options. We make for the ship and get off this slag-heap, we surrender... or we kill every cog-sucker we can and go have a slagging drink.” He turned to survey the room. Prowl kept his back to Lockdown's, his optics watching their enemies' cautious advance, his blade still out. 

“Let me guess which option you would go for,” he said wryly.

“No objections?” Lockdown flashed him a grin over his shoulder. “Option C it is.”

The battle that followed was a chaotic blur, more muddled than Detroit, more desperate than the Andala arena. He fought back-to-back with the hunter he hated, his blade and stars pitted alongside Lockdown's saw and stolen blaster. Despite the carnage, Prowl felt... alive. His mind was clear and sharp as a sabre, and he used it as much as his blade. He felt the life of each mech he fought, felt the hatred in their sparks before he snuffed them out. He also sensed Lockdown's pulsing life-force, blazing as the hunter cut his way through their enemies with cavalier brutality. It lent Prowl strength and ferocity, and a sense of invincibility that kept him fighting past the point where a saner mech may have retreated. 

“Get off the balcony,” Prowl yelled. The last wave was a cadre of Security drones, entering from the balcony doors. Prowl was exhausted and damaged, but his mind was a fine-tuned weapon and his frame zinged with electric energy. Lockdown fired his grapple at the roof and swung away, while Prowl jumped from the railing and guided his fall with his boosters' help. Before his feet touched the floor, he held his hands out, focused on the balcony's rickety brackets, and _pulled_. Metal shrieked, and the troopers stumbled and swayed as the platform canted dangerously forward. Prowl smirked, and made a jerking gesture to the side and down. The balcony came free from its supports and broke apart. The broken pieces crashed to the lower level, burying the trooper drones beneath them. 

Silence fell in the chamber. Prowl remained still as the dust settled. He was venting hard, and he had a headache like never before. He scanned the room. No-bot moved. 

Lockdown lowered himself on his grapple, and then detached his hook from the ceiling and reeled it in with a snap. His feet hit the floor behind Prowl, and the crash startled Prowl out of his stillness. Dazedly, he rose from his crouch and put away his blade. The station's hub had been reduced to chaos. It was only blind luck that had prevented blaster fire from ripping holes in the hull and sucking them all out into space, but as it was, it may only be a matter of time before the place disintegrated anyway. Bodies of mercs and drones alike littered the battlefield.

Prowl felt a wave of dizziness hit him, and he swayed where he stood. Lockdown's hand closed around his elbow. “Don't lose it now, kid,” the hunter rumbled. Prowl looked up at him. “You owe me a drink.”

“ _I_ owe- How to you figure that out?” Prowl's weakness passed, and he pulled free of Lockdown's grip to haughtily dust himself off.

“I bought you the tea, remember? Tsk, kids...” He trudged away from Prowl, his feet crushing debris with every step. He paused and turned. “Well, you comin' or not?”

Prowl followed him to the edge of the chamber, where the front of what had once been a bar had been blasted in. The bar was empty, the owner and customers presumably having fled the moment the firefight began. Prowl sat cross-legged on the bar counter, and watched as Lockdown searched for a cube that wasn't broken. He found himself smiling in spite of himself. 

Lockdown handed him a cube of something pink. There was a large chip in the cube's rim, but it was mostly intact.

“I don't drink high-grade,” he said mildly. 

“Can't you make an exception?” Lockdown said. He found a cube for himself. “We're lucky to be online.”

Prowl looked around. It seemed they had the only unbroken containers of fuel in the bar. He eyed the energon critically, and then shrugged. A swallow of high-grade would hardly be the most reckless, dangerous thing he'd done today. He took a sip.

*****

A joor or so later, Lockdown carried Prowl back to the _Death's Head_. Security didn't bother them, and no other slavers or mercs crawled out of the woodwork. They didn't see Whip or Ghost again. 

Prowl had drunk the whole cube of high-grade, and his system, unused to such refined fuel, had become overcharged. It was a mark of how drunk the ninja was that he allowed Lockdown to carry him at all. The hunter entered the ship, went to Prowl's room, and laid the ninja on his berth. 

“You sure you're gonna be all right?” he rumbled as Prowl stretched out on the bed. He didn't think he had ever seen Prowl this relaxed. He cut a tempting picture. He sat down on the edge of the berth and let out a sigh. His frame ached; it had been quite the battle, and he wasn't a young mech any more. 

Prowl made a soft sound, and Lockdown watched in surprise as he unclipped his visor and set it on the table by the side of the bed. Clear blue optics looked up at him. 

“Which one of us is the immortal?” Prowl said with a smirk. 

“Yeah yeah, all right.” He prepared to leave, when Prowl's hand came to rest upon his arm. He looked down at it, and then at Prowl's face. Prowl pulled him down gently, and then his hand was on the back of the hunter's helm, and Allspark dammit he was kissing him. Prowl's lips were soft, and tasted of potent high-grade. Lockdown let himself enjoy it for a dazed moment, and then he pulled away. Prowl looked like he was about to argue, but Lockdown shook his head and said, “You'd kill me in the mornin'. Sleep off the charge, an' then we'll talk about it.”

He rose from the berth, hesitated by the door. When he looked back Prowl's optics were already closed, and he was curled on his side, his expression peaceful. Lockdown passed his hand over his face and sighed. He left the door open, and went to his workshop. He keyed a course into the control terminal, and relaxed back, a stupid smile on his face. He spent the rest of the down-shift dozing in his chair, while the _Death's Head_ left the station far behind and coasted on its way toward Cybertron.


	13. Darkmount

They did not depart at dawn. For all of Megatron's stirring oratory, the reality was far more prosaic and time-consuming. The captured Quintesson ship was deemed unsuitable for the swift flight of an elite team such as that which Megatron wanted to accompany himself and Starscream, so it was up to Cyclonus to prepare his own ship, the _Rebellion_ , and make it ready for their journey. The rest of the fleet was a hodgepodge rabble of stolen and refitted craft, stored here and there on and around Monacus. Megatron, Starscream, and a hand-picked crew would take the _Rebellion_ as soon as she was ready to fly, and continue their journey to re-establish a base of operations on New Kaon. Cyclonus's troops and Tappet's former miners would follow in whatever ships they could get into the air. There was still no word from General Strika, so whatever had become of the rest of the Decepticons' scattered forces remained unknown.

Cyclonus had assigned bots to see to the housing and feeding of the new additions. Orders from Starscream were scarce, so Vault busied himself overseeing the preparation of the _Rebellion_ , which chafed Cyclonus, he knew.

Some of Tappet's miners were long-lost Decepticons who brushed the dust off their brands and returned to ranks without a second thought. The rest were neutrals or former Autobots, grateful to the mech who had rescued them from life in purgatory. These were branded in a mass ceremony on the second night after the Quintesson ship landed.

Vault stood at Starscream's right hand through the ceremony. On Starscream's left was Megatron, and at Megatron's shoulder, Blitzwing. They cut an interesting picture, the new Decepticon high command. Vault fought to keep the smirk from his face.

Starscream held up well throughout the ceremony. He and Megatron both took turns with the branding iron. Vault didn't bother to hide his smile when the kneeling recruits said their oath, and he remembered whispering those same words in Starscream's berth. He watched the seeker as he stood tall despite his slow-healing damage, standing erect with his wings held up high and wide. Vault had made a call and found a bot to fix Starscream up beyond his rough field repairs, and although his wings remained mismatched in their markings, his armour was buffed to a shine. He looked every bit a leader; if Megatron was the seasoned warlord, Starscream was a prince.

It was several orbital cycles before they actually left the Monacus base. The _Rebellion_ was a smaller ship than the _Lady Luck_ , being a slightly larger, modified version of one of Strika's _Thanatos_ attack ships, but it was fleeter than both Swindle's clunking old slaver and the Quintesson craft. They anticipated making good time to Pyrovar.

Megatron and Starscream chose a small, elite crew to man the ship. Blitzwing and Vault would stay by their master's sides, of course. Blackarachnia and Lugnut volunteered, and Cyclonus picked the femme Glaive from his own unit to accompany them. From Tappet's group, Starscream chose the budding medic, Gull, while Megatron enlisted a jet named Stringer.

Tappet, promoted immediately to a sub-commander's post, remained on Monacus to help Cyclonus co-ordinate the newly swelled numbers there. Only time would tell how well Cyclonus would manage working alongside the former Autobot.

The whole base turned out for the departure. The _Rebellion_ took off from a raised dock at the rear of the tower. The ship herself was clearly of Decepticon design – streamlined and angular, her colours dark violet and black. Vault saw Starscream safely aboard – even among allies, he kept an optic out for anybot who might feel less than enthusiastic about Starscream's recent elevation from 'traitor' to Lord.

The departure itself was brief enough. Megatron gave a small speech, and then they were piling aboard. On the bridge, Megatron conceded the captain's seat to Starscream. The seeker, still stiff and aching from his damage, accepted gratefully but silently, while Megatron stood behind the seat with his hands on the chair's back. The pilot's station went to the untried Stringer, who surprised them all by guiding the _Rebellion_ from the floating dock with graceful and practised ease.

Once they were in open space, with Monacus behind them, they cut across the remainder of the Co-Prosperity Sphere, and skimmed the edge of the Commonwealth by cutting past Paradron. The _Rebellion_ proved to be just as swift as Cyclonus promised, and even with the obligatory stops for fuel and supplies at ports and neutral outposts, they made good time. They hopped a space-bridge or two, for a fee, and within the decacycle they were more than half-way toward what Megatron and Starscream remembered as Decepticon space.

During the journey, it was Blackarachnia who tried to gently voice her doubts concerning their pilgrimage. Megatron had spent the last thousand years imprisoned, as had Blitzwing, and Starscream had been dead. Glaive was too timid in the face of their returned lords to voice any kind of dissent at all, and Stringer, who had spent the last several hundred years on Torkulon, was as unfamiliar with the current state of the Empire as any of Akeron's inmates. Even so, Blackarachnia didn't raise the issue directly to Megatron or Starscream, and Blitzwing gently shut her down. Their leadership had their doubts, they were all quite sure, but there was no where else to go.

The journey was largely uneventful. They had a couple of run-ins with pirates the further they got from the galaxy's hub, but the _Rebellion_ had adequate firepower to best them. They considered capturing the conquered ships, but Starscream made the point that they hadn't the mech-power to pilot more than one craft until Cyclonus and Tappet caught up with them with the fleet.

They landed on Pyrovar, or New Kaon, in the dead of the night-cycle. Stringer guided the ship lightly down onto a patch of even ground on the outskirts of the city, New Kaon proper. Starscream, rested and refuelled by long orbital cycles of travelling, barely waited until the engines were idling before rushing from the ship. Megatron followed him, clearly just as eager, but more restrained. Blitzwing motioned for Glaive to remain on board to guard the ship, and then the rest of them filed out of the airlock to follow their leaders into the city.

Starscream set his thrusters down onto the dark, glassy sand of the planet's surface. He hadn't been much in New Kaon, himself – once he had taken the brand, Starscream's permanent residence had been the _Nemesis_. He had visited plenty of times, of course. There had once been talk of increasing the colony to the planet's surrounding system and building a new great Decepticon empire out here on the outer rim, but somehow those plans had never come to fruition. Megatron had always had his spark set on nothing less than Cybertron, and as a result New Kaon had never quite overcome its humble origins as a camp for refugees of the Decepticons' first exodus from their home. Megatron's preoccupation with reclaiming their home planet had made him disdainful of Pyrovar and any other planets they claimed, and as such New Kaon had been left to General Strika and her underlings to construct and manage. Starscream had always thought it a grim and pitiful place. He had felt the atmosphere of hopelessness and outrage, and he had never been eager to stay long. He had preferred the claustrophobic loneliness of the drifting _Nemesis_ and Megatron's ceaseless quest for the Allspark to the dead city that smelt of defeat.

Now, the city – which spread across half the small, barren planet – was even more of a wasteland than Starscream remembered. Its dark towers stood broken and in shadow, whilst a storm flashed and rumbled in a roiling, dark red sky.

“Bit of a fixer-upper,” Vault murmured. Megatron tensed, and Starscream gave his lieutenant the barest shake of his head.

“We should check inside the city,” Megatron said, his voice tight. “With me.”

They walked into the city limits. The buildings, crude and dark as they were, reared above them.

“I'm going to get a better look,” Starscream said. He jumped and transformed before Megatron could disagree. His joints scraped painfully as he transformed, and he was harshly reminded of his lingering, slow-healing damage. He could transform and he could fly, but it hurt, and it taxed him in a way he had never felt before. He only hoped that the more fuel and recharge he got, the more he would heal up. Mindful not to show his discomfort to Megatron or the other 'Cons assembled below him, he quickly wheeled away to scout the area.

He flew in wide circles and pooled his sensors outward, over the buildings below. He found no signs of habitation, and the buildings were long wrecked and burnt. At some point the planet had suffered devastating attack, though whether at the hands of the Autobots or some other force remained unknown, and it been left to rot in disrepair. Starscream wondered at that – the Autobot empire had expanded in the thousand years Starscream had slept, so why had they left Pyrovar a monument to the Decepticons' ruinous fate?

He circled back to Megatron, transformed, and landed at his side.

“Report, then,” Megatron rumbled.

Gull was taking some readings of her own on her hand-held. The others stood by, perhaps stunned by the devastation of what had once been their Decepticon-kind's hope for salvation.

“No signs of life,” Starscream said. Megatron hid his emotions well, but Starscream saw the moment disappointment almost broke him. Megatron had clung to this place as a beacon in the darkness of the world he had returned to after Akeron, had pinned all his once-dashed hopes on finding the remainder of his lost army, and the seat of his power, here. Starscream refused to indulge him. He wouldn't allow Megatron to show his pain or give into it. He needed him to hold it together – they both did. The look he gave Megatron was hard, and Megatron rallied, understanding the meaning behind his pitiless glare.

“We head there,” Megatron said, and he raised his hand to point to one spire that rose higher than the ruins surrounding it. It was a dark silhouette against the bloody sky, and its summit was wreathed in ominous mist. “The fortress, Darkmount. Vault, return to the ship and help Glaive set up a perimeter. The rest of you – rise up.”

“Sir,” Vault said curtly with a salute. He stepped back as Megatron, Starscream, Gull, Lugnut, Stringer, and Blitzwing transformed and rose into the sky. He sighed, envying their aerial forms for just a moment. Then he turned and made his way back to the ship.

Starscream, in alt-mode, looped around Megatron, and then placed himself in the lead of a formation of three with Megatron and Blitzwing. Gull, Lugnut, and Stringer formed a second trio, and followed Starscream to the west.

The fortress was still more or less intact. Once the seat of ruling power on New Kaon, Darkmount was a massive stone and metal structure, built tall to aerials' specifications. Its central tower was a huge, dark monolith, bristling with sharp spines and flourishes. With the red sky behind it and lightning crackling along its spires, it was truly forbidding.

Within the fortress walls was a huge square before the ground entrance to the tower. In the square's centre stood a statue of Megatron. As they circled around the tower, Starscream opened his comm and asked, “Did you have that commissioned specially?” The black stone had long been eroded by the planet's acid rain, and even from this altitude Starscream could see that only the barest semblance of Megatron's face remained. The frame, however, was distinct, as was the figure's commanding pose, standing straight with its hands resting on the pommel of a massive sword.

“It was a gift,” Megatron replied stiffly.

“Ah yes, from Strika,” Starscream remembered. “I wonder whatever happened to her.”

Megatron didn't respond. Starscream let it slide, and guided the group in to set down upon the broad landing platform jutting from the tower's top. He transformed and stood for a moment, as the others landed behind him, and took in the grand doors that led into the vast chamber at the top of the tower. The place was wreathed in shadows. Starscream put one hand on his hip and waved at the desolation around them. “Is it worth going inside?” he asked. “There's not a spark on this rock.” He bit his glossa when he saw the look in Megatron's optics. The old mech still had hopes here. Starscream couldn't bring himself to crush them, not anymore. “I suppose there might be something here we can use,” he mumbled.

“Precisely,” Megatron said coldly. He stepped forward, and pushed at the great double-doors. They opened onto blackness. Filled with an odd trepidation, Starscream followed.

The inside of the fortress was less dilapidated than Starscream had expected, though part of the roof at the rear of the chamber had been sheared away in some cataclysm. The décor was typically Decepticon, with lots of exposed metal, swooping lines, and sharp, pointed details. Decepticon symbols were engraved boldly into the walls. The floor of the vast chamber was littered with forgotten artefacts, dust, and rubble. Megatron advanced into the gloom, toward the far end of the hall where, on a raised dais beneath a large Decepticon mark emblazoned in muted silver, stood the grand throne that had once been his. Once, it had been imposing and magnificent. Now, with the rear part of the room open to the acidic elements, and the tower shaken by disaster and eroded by time, both the throne and its dais were broken, a wide crack cleaving both in two.

Megatron advanced until just before the dais. He stopped there, and for a while stared in silence. Starscream glanced back at the others, and with a whispered command he sent them down through the tower's lower floors, searching for anything they could use. Alone with Megatron in the silent throne-room, Starscream stepped forward.

“A relic from a bygone age,” he said, and an ironic smile graced his lips.

Megatron's shoulders tensed, and then he exhaled and the tension seemed to breathe out of him. Bitterly, he said, “Are you talking about me, or the throne?”

Starscream stood beside Megatron. He waved one hand expansively. “This whole city. The whole planet.”

Megatron's optics dulled. He stared at the broken throne. “None of this has turned out how I expected...”

Starscream rolled his optics, and then followed Megatron's gaze. “You almost sound like you're giving up,” he said. He folded his arms. “We both knew there'd be no fanfare for us here. You expect me to believe your dreams of conquest have died, finally, because of _this_?”

“Conquest, Staracream?” Megatron's voice held a tone of warning. “You weren't there in the beginning, you have no idea what this war is truly about, you never did. You were too busy prancing about Vos in idyllic seclusion to even be aware of the strife tearing your planet apart.”

“Huh.” Starscream stepped into Megatron's space in a mute challenge. “Tell me, then? What did I miss?”

Megatron turned away from him. “It matters little now. My predecessor fought for the protection of Cybertron. It was what we were programmed to do – fight and protect. But those bureaucratic Guardians saw no need for our progressive methods. Our every proposal was met with scorn, and then fear. I saw the direction things were going to take.”

“So you took control.” Megatron turned back to him, and Starscream sighed. “I do know how it went, Megatron. Just like I've always known how you rose to power.” He made a dismissive gesture. “For all that matters now.

“...Indeed.”

Starscream took a breath, thinking. Then, he said, “Wait here.” He strode from the room, through a set of double doors behind the throne. Beyond was a small room, Starscream could only guess what its original function had been. Now it was a repository for all manner of dust-covered junk. He found two battered chairs and dragged them out into the main chamber. Megatron watched him as he set them on the broken dais before the throne, and then flung himself into one of them. He sat with his legs and arms crossed, and his wings held defiantly high. He gave Megatron a look of challenge.

For an instant Megatron seemed about to explode in anger and indignation, but then he seemed to realise the absurdity of the situation, because he shook his head and laughed. “Starscream...” He paced wearily to the dais and sat down in the second chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and gave Starscream a tired, wry smile. “You simply don't believe in defeat, do you?”

“It's not in my vocabulary,” Starscream replied smoothly.

Suddenly Blitzwing dashed up the steps and back into the throne room. He stopped before the dais, and addressed them both. “Lord Megatron, Lord Starscream. Vault sent a communication – the _Rebellion_ is picking up life signs.”

“What?” Megatron shot upright, and his makeshift throne fell backward with a crash. “Why did we not detect these before?”

Blitzwing looked grimly apologetic. “That is unknown. Glaive says she detects a number of Cybertronian signals, but that they are weak, and... strange, somehow. Also, a small handful of organic heat signatures.”

Megatron and Starscream exchanged glances. “It seems whoever was hiding here before has finally realised they have company,” Megatron said.

Starscream grinned as he stood up. “Let's go say hello.”

Megatron turned back to Blitzwing. “Tell Glaive to remain on the _Rebellion_ and keep the ship prepped and ready in case we require assistance. Where are the others? Decepticons, to me!”

“No, to _me_!” Starscream yelled. A gleeful grin on his face, and he was already running to the entrance doors and the balcony beyond. “We fly!” He reached the balcony's edge and threw himself off. He transformed in the air, and arced away from the tower. From lower levels of the tower, Stringer and Gull emerged and moved into place behind his wings.

Megatron exchanged a look with Blitzwing, and sighed. “Lugnut, we are moving out. Transform and follow me.” Megatron moved to the balcony with Blitzwing half a pace behind him. They transformed and followed Starscream's vapour trail. Lugnut caught them up in moments – Megatron knew the big mech had misgivings about allowing Starscream to lead in any capacity, but he kept his doubts quiet out of respect for his lord.

Starscream cut through the noxious air like a blade, Gull and Stringer riding his wings in battle formation. The signals he tracked were not Decepticon, and therefore they were enemy. Megatron lagged behind, and Starscream didn't wait.

As he approached the source of the signals, he reduced his speed. He led his makeshift trine in a wide circle as his sensors brushed the ground. A collection of boxy structures clustered around a communication tower in a valley between two rocky hills. Starscream's sensor readouts showed a small population of organics scurrying within the structures. The three jets swooped low and then transformed, landing at the edge of the settlement. As soon as Starscream's thrusters hit the dirt, a forcefield buzzed to life, forming a dome that covered the entire complex. Starscream, Stringer, and Gull were trapped inside.

“Starscream?” Megatron's vocals sounded distorted on Starscream's comms.

“Relax,” Starscream breathed, though his wings were high and tense and his frame was ready for action. He glanced up. Megatron had caught up, and he hovered above the dome while Lugnut and Blitzwing flew in restless circles.

A siren began to wail. White-suited flesh-bags poured from one of the buildings toting tiny plasma weapons, and Starscream watched in disgust as they formed ranks. On the mountainous outcrops above the settlement, mounted guns raised their barrels to aim at the airborne 'Cons.

One of the humans spoke into an electronic device, and their tinny voice blasted from speakers mounted on the buildings' walls. “Unidentified Cybertronians, state your designations and purpose immediately.”

Starscream bared his teeth. “I am Starscream,” he cried. “Vermin!”

There was a hesitation, and then, “Decepticon Starscream. You are a wanted war criminal and an enemy of the Cybertron-Earth Alliance. Surrender now or we _will_ terminate you.”

Starscream threw his head back and laughed. “Surrender? To _humans_? Never.” He was about to say more, to demand the purpose of the facility, and how humans could dare to invade the Decepticon Empire, but the insolent insects opened fire before he could draw breath.

Their small rifles didn't do much more than sting, but Starscream yelled in fury and indignation. “Destroy them!” he commanded, and Gull and Stringer obeyed. Starscream raised his arms and charged his cannons. Abruptly as they had begun their attack, the humans started to withdraw. Starscream laughed and strode forward, raining destruction wherever he pointed his cannons. Buildings bloomed into flame, and the humans ran like frightened petrorabbits before his onslaught.

He hesitated only when the ground moved beneath his thrusters. He stepped back, and back again, as the dark sand shifted to reveal a panel sliding open in what he had thought was solid rock. He heard the distant drone of Megatron's rotors intensify, but the dome still separated them. He glanced to the side. More panels were opening, five in total, and from each of them a platform rose. On each platform was a mech. Well, something like a mech, anyway.

“What's this?” he said softly, and cocked his head. “The humans' pets?” He let his sensors sweep over the figures, and he shuddered. Their signals were... wrong. These were the distorted Cybertronian energy signatures the _Rebellion_ had picked up on her long-range scan.

“We repeat,” came the human's voice again, except this time it was amplified through the mouth of one of the mechs instead of the mounted speakers. “Stand down, or be terminated.”

Starscream growled. “You do not know who you're dealing with,” he hissed. He shifted his stance, and turned to the creature on the platform in front of him. It reacted to his aggression, and Starscream started to grin in anticipation of a fight.

His grin froze when he got a better look at the thing. The mech before him was tall and spindly, with broad shoulders and a skeletal stoop. It had been painted in white and blue in an eerie likeness of an Autotrooper, but the bright colours on that emaciated frame only made Starscream's plating crawl. Its limbs were too long for its body, and claws like knives trailed on the ground from its limply hanging arms. Half its head had been sheared away and replaced with a human-built simulacrum of a helm, from which two slim antennae rose into the air. The face was long and gaunt. One optic was missing, leaving only a black hollow. The other glowed a deep, dark green.

Starscream took another step back. He stumbled. “Not possible,” he whispered hoarsely.

To either side of him, Stringer and Gull were already engaged in combat with the other battle drones. Starscream didn't hear the laser fire, the explosions, the scream of Gull's engines as she took to the air and grazed the dome with the tip of her wing. Starscream's audios were filled with a rising static hiss, and his helm began to throb. The monster in front of him took a lurching step forward. It raised one hand, and with a jerking snap of its wrist, the claws of that hand lengthened to a set of nightmarish talons.

Starscream's wings hiked in close to his body. His vision was black around the edges, and his optics focused on those claws. His sensors remembered their bite, and memories tumbled and bled into one another as his panic rose. Claws through his wings pinning him to a wall of corpses, to Graft's table, to Driver's wall; his wings spread out like trophies, his chamber open and his optics dull. The helplessness and agony as Driver's claws pinned him to the Quintessons' operating table and pried open his chest and helm. Reality merged with the dark visions encountered in Driver's processor through the hard-line connection, until he was no longer sure what was real and what was fantasy.

Driver raised his hand and slashed. Starscream lost his footing as he tried to avoid the attack, and he fell and hit the ground. The tips of Driver's claws missed him by a breath. Starscream's vents stuttered. He scrabbled backward, trying to put some distance between himself and Driver's warped remains. Driver advanced, his gate loping and unnatural. His claws rose again, and for a moment Starscream was frozen, awaiting his beheading.

Driver brought his claws down, aiming to stab rather than swipe – aiming to pin Starscream to the ground right through his wing. In a split-second, that knowledge was enough to push Starscream to action. He screamed in outrage and kicked upward, firing his jets to blast Driver away from him. The creature toppled and staggered backward, but didn't fall. Starscream used the time to spring onto his feet. He tossed two cluster bombs at Driver's chassis, and took to the air.

One of the bombs missed, the other stuck. It detonated as Starscream reached the dome, and the shock-wave knocked Starscream into the force-field. He cursed and tumbled away from it; the energy singed his armour where it had touched him. He hovered and looked down as the dust cleared. Driver was still standing, but a large patch of his chassis had its armour sheared away and was smoking. Driver's steady green gaze found him. Cannons rose from his shoulders – the gun Starscream had stolen had been replaced with more high-tech armaments. The creature Starscream faced was a walking weapon. Driver opened fire. Starscream evaded the first volley of shots, dancing between them in the air. When he could, he shot a return blast from his cannons, but it was only a matter of time before one of the laser bolts caught his wing and sent him spiraling down. A second blast clipped his thruster before he hit the ground.

Starscream snarled and cursed. His frame hurt, but more debilitating was the memory of pain, and the fear of it. He dragged himself onto his back and shot with both cannons, firing blindly. One of his shots grazed the top of Driver's helm, and burned away one of the antennae. Driver swayed on his feet. He took one more slow step, and his gaze fixed upon Starscream. Then his frame slowed, finally, to a stop. He stood motionless, his body an inert machine. Only the unending glow of his eye betrayed the unnatural life prolonged within his twisted shell.

Starscream took a tense breath. “Disable their antennae!” he screamed, though he no longer knew if Stringer or Gull still fought. He glanced around. Smoke and fire had engulfed the base. He became tangentially aware of Megatron's cannon-fire hammering on the top of the dome. He sat up. Stringer was locked in hand-to-hand combat with one of the battle-drones, while another other lay smouldering and dead upon the ground. Gull was in the air, beset by cannon-fire from two other drones. Beyond the dome, Megatron fired on the force-field while Blitzwing and Lugnut rained destruction on the cannon turrets. Starscream started to rise to his feet. “They're being controlled by the humans!” he yelled, but if the others heard him they gave no sign. “Destroy the-”

The words were swept from him as a weight hit him and bore him back down onto the ground. Starscream snarled and slashed at his attacker, and his claws drew energon that splashed onto his face. He was on his back, pressed down against the dirt. He looked up and through the energon he saw the dead green glow of Driver's optic. His gaunt face, never animated, now held an expression of fervent triumph. His claws raked at Starscream's wings and armour, wreaking destruction with the sole purpose to hurt. Starscream fought him with his own claws, blocked him with his gauntlets, kicked and shoved. He didn't have room to get a good shot from his cannons, but he tried anyway. Driver pressed him down with his weight. Starscream saw the damage to his helm – he had blasted away one of the antennae, and the circuitry bared beneath was jarringly alien. The mech's processor had been pieced back together and built into the headmaster unit, even though his mind was destroyed and all but lost the moment Optimus's axe stopped his spark. And yet, as his optic met Starscream's, Starscream knew something of the mech Driver had been remained in this distorted frame. With his link to the humans' control cut off, he should have been rendered a lifeless, harmless drone. He shouldn't even have been able to move without his masters' command.

Starscream kicked and bucked. When Driver leaned in, his vents creaking, Starscream snarled and snapped his teeth, going for the monster's throat. Energon welled into his mouth and Starscream choked on the rank taste.

Pain bloomed suddenly in his wing. He arched and yelled in agony, and lost his grip on Driver's throat. He didn't need to turn his head to know what his sensors told him was true – Driver's claws had pierced his wing and driven down into the rock beneath him. He was pinned. He looked up into Driver's optic and screamed, panic burning into searing rage. Mechanisms in the back of his throat ground to life, he felt his anger becoming a real and tangible heat. His faceplates reconfigured themselves, and then a scream of sonic destruction exploded from the cannon in his mouth. The blast caught Driver in the face. His claws dislodged from Starscream's wing as he was forced backward, and Starscream surged after him. His cannon folded back into his throat, and his faceplates reformed into a grimace of fury. He fell on Driver's smoking frame, brought his hand back, and thrust it into Driver's chest. He didn't break the plating on the first try, but he scraped his claws and dug deep. Driver flailed beneath him – his helm was a blackened ruin, half his chassis already destroyed by cannon-fire. Starscream yelled wordlessly, forced his claws deeper, and found the place Driver's spark should be. He gripped something and pulled, and removed a sparking piece of alien tech. The spark-blue light within its orb crackled spasmodically for an instant, and the frame beneath him arched in its death throes. Then the light went out, and Starscream pulled again and severed all of the cables connecting it to Driver's frame.

Starscream threw the dead spark away. He sat up, still straddling the dead mech. His frame was covered in energon, and his optics blazed in triumph.

“Starscream!” Starscream glanced around, dazed. His optics registered a mech standing over him, and his cannons hummed as he readied to fight again. “Starscream, I said we have to go. Do you hear me?” Starscream blinked, and his processor changed data-track. The mech was Megatron. Starscream focused on him, and then he nodded. He was damaged, his wing throbbed with pain. He was covered in gore, but Driver lay dead beneath him. He was victorious, and he was alive. Starscream grinned, and then he started to laugh. Megatron leaned down to help him to his feet, but Starscream grabbed him and jerked him down, forcing him to kneel in the spreading pool of energon beside Driver's frame. Starscream held the back of Megatron's neck and pulled him into a kiss. It was raw and primal, both a celebration and an affirmation of his victory and his survival.

Megatron's hand pressed against his cockpit. He bit Starscream's lip and Starscream felt him growl. But then Megatron was pushing him away, and he murmured against Starscream's lips, “Starscream, we have to leave.”

Starscream drew back and snarled. Megatron abruptly rose to his feet and, gripping Starscream's arm, drew him up with him. Starscream swayed and held onto Megatron's wrist. He looked around and took in the destruction around them. The humans' base was ashes and flame. The force-field was down, and the battle-drones lay dead, scattered between the burning buildings. From the smoke, he saw Blitzwing advance, with a damaged Gull leaning heavily on his arm. Lugnut remained in the air, and the drone of his engines drew Starscream's optics upward.

His jaw fell open and his optics widened. Suspended in the red sky above the mountains to the north of the complex was a vast white ship. It advanced ponderously toward the base, and Starscream knew with certainty that they were finally outgunned.

“The _Ariel_..?”

“It transwarped in a klik ago,” Megatron explained urgently.

Starscream straightened, though his battered frame creaked in complaint. “We fight,” he croaked.

“Starscream,” Megatron said, his voice low. “That is a warship. To attack would be suicide.”

Starscream looked up at him. “What choice do we have?” he hissed.

Wind whipped up sand and ash as the _Ariel_ coasted closer, lower, and the pulsing thrum of the craft's engines drowned out all other sounds. Starscream felt the vibration deep in his struts, and he lifted a hand to shield his optics. He knew he couldn't transform – Driver had shredded his wing, _again_ , and even flight in root mode would be risky. His weapons still functioned, but between the group of them they would still make a pretty pitiful last stand. He growled in desperation.

He watched as the white ship's cannons were trained upon himself and Megatron. Starscream prepared to push free of Megatron, but just then his internal comm unit opened up and smooth vocals boomed out on an open channel: “Stand down, Megatron. There's nowhere to escape to. I repeat, stand down.”

“Optimus Prime,” Starscream hissed under his breath. He raised his voice and replied over the comm, “What brings you into the Decepticon Empire, Prime?”

Megatron glanced at him. His frame was taut, ready to fight or fly. He remained tensely still and kept a tight hold on Starscream.

“Starscream,” Optimus said. “I... I'm responding to a distress call from the human researchers at this facility. I have authority to arrest every Decepticon here. I also have authority to open fire, if you refuse to co-operate. Starscream... you know I'd rather not-”

“Can it, Prime! Save your sentimental slag for some other bot. You already had your chance.”

Megatron looked at Starscream in surprise, his brows shooting up. Starscream paid him no attention.

Blitzwing and Gull reached them, and both stood, unsteady and battered, awaiting commands.

“Starscream, if you try to fight or run, I have to shoot you down. Stay where you are and we'll come and arrest you.”

Starscream swallowed, remembering the white cell, the restraints and the drugs, the ranks of Autobots all itching to take out their resentment on any Decepticon in reach. He bared his teeth in a snarl; no, he would never do that again. He would never again be at any bot's mercy, never again be trapped or imprisoned, experimented on, or taken apart. He pushed Megatron away and stood straight, yelling wordlessly in defiance of his inevitable defeat.

“Starscream!” Megatron tried to grab him, and Starscream realised he had taken a step toward the Autobot ship. The _Ariel_ 's guns powered up in response to his aggression. Megatron's hand caught his wrist. Starscream shook him off, but Megatron was insistent. “Starscream, _no_ -” The _Ariel_ was right above them now.

“Starscream!”

Starscream whirled around. “I told you, _I won't go back_!” But Megatron was turned away from him. It hadn't been Megatron who called his name.

The chugging of the _Ariel_ 's massive engines had drowned out the approach of the smaller craft. The _Rebellion_ hovered low over the charred research complex, and the main airlock was open. Vault knelt on the end of the ramp, holding onto the hatch's support strut with one hand while he reached out with the other.

“Starscream! Come on, let's go!” There was urgency in his blue optics as he reached for the seeker. Starscream's face lit up.

Megatron had the same thought as he did. “Decepticons, retreat!” he cried. Starscream was already running toward the ship. Optimus called a warning over the comms, but Starscream ignored him. He used his thrusters for a boost, leapt, and reached up. Vault caught his hand and pulled him up onto the ramp.

Blitzwing and Gull were close behind him, and he and Vault helped them up the ramp and into the ship. Megatron yelled something at Lugnut before following. Starscream grabbed him and pulled him aboard.

The _Rebellion_ began to rise, and the three mechs on the ramp backed up into the airlock vestibule. Above them, Lugnut banked and, pre-empting the _Ariel_ 's attack, let off a shower of his bombs. They rained down upon the Autobot craft, giving the _Rebellion_ just enough time to rise and move away from the massive ship.

Vault put his arm around Starscream's waist and gently drew him back toward the inner hatch. “C'mon Starscream,” he said, his voice low but not disguising his urgency. “Glaive has the helm, but we might need some of your fancy flying to get out of this one.”

Starscream nodded. “Call Lugnut back to the ship,” he instructed Megatron. He looked around. “Where's Stringer?”

Megatron spoke without turning back to him. “Dead,” he said. “There was no time to recover his body.”

Starscream let Vault lead him into the ship. The _Rebellion_ rose higher still, and the thunder of the Ariel's cannons began. Lugnut kept pace with the ship as she rose in Pyrovar's atmosphere, and then he answered Megatron's summons and boarded the ship.

Starscream dashed straight for the bridge. Unmindful of the energon he was leaking from his shredded wing and a dozen other cuts and gashes all over his frame, he took the pilot's seat from Glaive. The femme moved to a gunner's station, as did Vault.

“Let's see what this ship of Cyclonus's can do,” Starscream said. He tested the controls, and the ship responded beautifully. Starscream grinned. He flew the _Rebellion_ as he would fly himself, and dived aggressively around and beneath the _Ariel_ 's bulk. “Empty everything we have into her,” he commanded. The _Rebellion_ 's guns were powerful for a ship her size, and everyone aboard the bridge whooped in triumph as a line of flame erupted down the Autobot ship's side. Starscream wasn't sure how much the _Rebellion_ 's shields were up to, so he flew evasively, forcing the ship into sharp turns and rolls to avoid the pulses of cannon-fire from the _Ariel_ 's turrets.

Megatron appeared on the bridge and made his way to the captain's chair. He sat tensely, gripping the chair's arms as Starscream executed another roll that narrowly avoided a strafe of laser-fire.

“Starscream, we can't hope to destroy a ship of that size,” he said. He opened his mouth to say more, when a bolt of cannon-fire caught the tail end of the ship and sent her into an uncontrolled spin. Starscream got her back, but alarms blared and the expression on the seeker's face was strained as he fought to keep the ship in the air. Blitzwing ran, limping, from the bridge to see to whatever repairs he could.

“We're being hailed,” Vault said through gritted teeth.

“Again? Some bots just don't know when to give up,” Starscream growled. “Ignore it.”

“No... wait. Starscream, it's not the Autobot ship. I'm putting it up on the viz-screen.”

The central screen flared to life. The image shown was the interior of a ship, lit in violet and indigo. The ship's captain glared out at them, and Starscream laughed in surprise and triumph. Megatron shot to his feet.

“My apologies for being late, Lord Megatron,” said General Strika. “Cyclonus's message was waylaid for some time, but I made all haste as soon as I received word of your destination.”

“I've got transwarp windows opening up all over the sky,” Vault reported. He gave his gun over to Gull and checked the scanners again instead. “A ship, no, ships... Starscream, there's a whole fleet closing in.”

“Autobots?”

Vault turned to him and shook his head. His optics glittered bright blue, and he gave an incredulous grin. “Decepticon, all of them.”

The screen cut in two and Cyclonus's visage appeared almost apologetic. “My Lords,” he said.

“Well done, both of you,” Megatron said. “Disable the Autobot vessel, but don't waste time trying to destroy it. The Autobot fleet will be transwarping in any moment, I'm sure.”

“Lord Megatron, what is our escape vector?”

Megatron looked to Starscream. “We need to get off the Elite Guard's radar,” Starscream said. “Otherwise the Prime'll be on our tails from here to Nebulos.”

“Any suggestions?” Megatron asked all of them, his urgency clear in his tight, clipped tone.

Glaive raised her hand nervously. “I know a place, near where I was built. It's quiet, in a real backwoods of space. We could hide out there...? No bot would find us.” She looked from face to face. Megatron met Starscream's optics, and a wordless exchange passed between them in an instant. Megatron turned back to Glaive. “Give me the co-ordinates.”

Glaive complied, and Megatron returned his attention to his commanders on the viz-screen. “Provide covering fire for our ship, and regroup at the co-ordinates I'm sending you now as soon as possible, by any means.” There was a pause as Megatron send the datapacket to both Strika and Cyclonus. Both indicated their assent, and Megatron cut the channel. “Starscream, get us out of here.”

“I'm way ahead of you,” Starscream said with a grin. As the fleet opened fire – Strika's _Thanatos_ warships flying level with Cyclonus and Tappet's ragtag armada – Starscream guided the _Rebellion_ expertly through the crossfire. They burst from Pyrovar's atmosphere with a guard of six ships, flanking the new Decepticon flagship and shielding her should the _Ariel_ give chase. But the Decepticon ships kept Optimus busy, and when Starscream checked the rear scanners he saw that they were forcing the _Ariel_ to land, driving her back, and giving the _Rebellion_ time to get away. “Megatron, I need those co-ordinates!” Starscream cried. “Where am I flying this bird?”

Megatron sent him the data, and Starscream forced the ship into a hard turn to starboard. The six guard ships followed, and then they were burning their way out into open space. He plotted a hasty course, space-bridge to space-bridge. He had learnt from their flight from Akeron, and this time Starscream had no intention of leaving a trail for Optimus, or any Autobot, to follow him. This time he was free, and he flew with an army at his back. He was never going back.


	14. The Sanctuary

When Prowl awoke, the ship was quiet. No hum of systems, no creak of an engine in need of repairs. He onlined his optics and sat up slowly. His head ached, and he remembered the high-grade he had drunk the previous night. Then he remembered the rest. The battle at the port, the mercenaries in the slavers' employ, Whipcord and Ghost's disappearance. He sat up straight and slid to the edge of the berth. He had to find Lockdown. They had to go back.

And then his optics found the window, and he saw the view beyond. The sky was dark, but it was a sky he thought he recognised. Gone was the void of space, and in its place was a starlit skyline beyond a tangle of coiling silver trees. He rose to his feet and crossed to the window. He put his hand upon the glass. Two moons hung in the sky, and Prowl knew where he was. 

He left his quarters and went looking for Lockdown. He found him outside the ship, pacing around the clearing they'd landed in, a blaster in his hand. Prowl descended the ramp slowly, taking in the sight and scents of the Cybertronian glade. 

“Morning, sleepin' beauty,” Lockdown said when he saw him. He rested the large blaster across his shoulders. 

“We're on Cybertron,” Prowl said. His feet touched the cool hard ground, and he felt a profound sense of relaxation. He was... home. He hadn't been back to Cybertron since... not since Yoketron.

“Didn't think you'd ever wake up, kid,” Lockdown rumbled. He crossed to a low boulder and leant his blaster against it. “That high-grade really went to your head. Remind me not to give you any o' that again.”

“Why, did I do anything embarrassing?” Prowl asked with one brow raised. He started a slow circuit of the clearing. The sounds of a city drifted from somewhere not to far away, but the forest was peaceful. The trees coiled like molten chrome, and tiny rotaries hovered from branch to branch. This place felt familiar.

“Depends on whose reckonin',” Lockdown said. He was crouched by the boulder, his back to Prowl, and was taking apart the blaster. 

Prowl tilted his head and watched him for a moment. A smirk tugged the corner of his mouth. “There's nothing wrong with my memory, Lockdown.”

Lockdown put the gun down. He turned, still crouched. “And you've decided you hate me again, is that it? Come to slag me?”

Prowl ignored him. He started to pace again. “I know this place,” he said. 

“You oughtta.” Lockdown stood up and dusted himself off. “Figured we were close enough to Cybertron to pay a quick visit. I know you wanted to.”

“Yet we didn't have to,” Prowl said. “Not with Whipcord gone.” Curious. Lockdown had brought him here in spite of the inconvenience, in spite of the fact they should have been back on the road to Pyrovar by now. 

Lockdown leaned back against the rock and folded his arms. “Yeah. So?” He turned his head and spat. He was the picture of surly apathy, but Prowl didn't buy it any more. 

Prowl put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight. “So... thank you.” Prowl refreshed his optics, startled at his own words. 

Lockdown grunted. “Yeah, whatever. So what do you wanna do now you're here? We don't got time for sight-seeing.”

“I think I want...” Prowl's optics lingered on the frame of the hunter who wouldn't meet his optics. After the battle, after seeing Whipcord free, Prowl felt strangely freed himself. As if he had reached a turning point, a point of realisation. He remembered something Lockdown had said to him, he didn't know how long ago... _You belong to you. You don't owe them nothin', and you don't have to live for anybot's sake but your own_. He was on Cybertron, yes, but no-bot said he had to go and present himself to the high command. He didn't have to keep on atoning for his failures, he didn't have to sacrifice himself all over again. He was alive; by some miracle, or by the will of Primus, he was awake and online. He would be a fool to waste the time he had been given doing anything other than living, to the very fullest of his being. 

He stalked closer to the hunter. As Lockdown finally looked at him, he put his hands on his chest and pressed him back against the rock. He reached up, standing on the tips of his toes, curled his fingers over the top edge of Lockdown's chest-plate, and jerked him down. 

Their first kiss had been tense and competitive, their second a hazy, drunken impulse. This time Prowl kissed the hunter with intention. Lockdown hesitated only a moment – perhaps afraid the ninjabot might change his mind and turn this into a fight instead – before wrapping his arms tightly around Prowl's tiny waist and lifting him up. The kiss deepened, became hot and Prowl felt his processor spin; he felt like he was drunk again, and he wrapped his arms around Lockdown's neck and held on.

Lockdown was aggressive in a way Ghost had never been. He turned and pushed Prowl against the smooth rock, and Prowl enjoyed a heady moment of having the hunter's frame pressed flush against him, before his memory core refreshed, and he wrenched his head back with a gasp. He _knew_ he recognised this forest. 

He wriggled free of Lockdown's hold, and the hunter, bewildered, let him. Prowl had run half way across the glade before Lockdown snarled. Prowl looked over his shoulder with bright optics. It was only then that he realised he had forgotten to put his visor back on. “I know where we are,” he said, by way of a breathless explanation. His frame felt alight with excited energy. He offered Lockdown a bright smirk. “Aren't you coming?”

Lockdown processed for a moment, and then his optics blazed. He grinned. Prowl transformed and his wheels spun as he fled the grove. Lockdown transformed, and his supercharged engines roared as he gave chase.

Prowl had intended it as a swift trip from A to B, but as he wound his way through the narrow, twisting paths between the trees, he felt an exhilaration in the chase that was pure base-coding. He skidded around a corner between a thicket of trees and a stark black cliff-face, and then transformed and dashed on foot. Lockdown transformed as he cornered, and his shoulder hit the cliff with a screech of raw metal. He lunged after Prowl, and Prowl found himself laughing as he dodged and evaded the old bot's attacks. It became a playful sparring bout, only to be cut short when Prowl leapt into the trees and danced away once more. Lockdown growled and continued the chase on the ground. 

The next time Lockdown caught Prowl, Prowl hadn't let him. He jumped down from the treetops, and his feet had barely touched the ground before Lockdown tackled him and bore him down. Prowl yelped as he was suddenly pinned by the hunter's weight and bulk. “Got ya,” Lockdown rumbled into his audio.

Prowl was smiling as he bucked and writhed in an attempt to throw him off. It was hopeless – Lockdown was heavier and stronger than Prowl, and all that happened was Lockdown lifted himself enough to flip Prowl onto his back. He pinned the smaller bot's wrists above his head and pressed him down with his frame. Prowl arched, and Lockdown ground in between his legs. He claimed another kiss, and Prowl considered himself caught. 

“Never did tell me what you wanted,” Lockdown muttered. He nuzzled under Prowl's jaw and bit his throat. 

Prowl felt feverish and hot, his lines running warmer than they had since he could remember. He closed his optics and dived into the sensation. “I want- _oh_.” Lockdown held both his wrists pinned in one hand, and scraped the curve of his hook all the way down Prowl's side. He gasped and grazed his teeth against Lockdown's jaw. “You know what I want,” he said breathlessly.

“I wanna hear it,” Lockdown growled. 

He kissed him again, and Prowl felt like he was drowning. When he was finally able to gasp another breath, Prowl said, “I want you.”

Lockdown gave a ragged, savage grin. He loomed over Prowl, his larger frame pressing Prowl's slight form down. Prowl spread his thighs and bit his lip. His optics had turned a dark turquoise, and his whole frame pulsed with the same rhythm as his throbbing valve. He hadn't ever felt this _hungry_. He twisted his hands free and grabbed and tore at Lockdown's frame, pulling him down close again, reaching for his panel. “Easy,” Lockdown muttered, and he bit Prowl's neck. Prowl made a frustrated, needy sound, and Lockdown chuckled. “Open up, then.” Prowl realised the hunter had let his spike out, and he let out a deep growl as the heavy length ground against his chassis. He slid his panel back and curled his body, tilting his hips up in crude invitation. He hadn't acted like this since he was a young bot. 

Lockdown kissed him hard and deep. Prowl squirmed and kissed him back. He was eager and aggressive, and it would have shocked him if he'd had a cooler head. Lockdown wrapped his arm around Prowl's waist, and then suddenly they were rolling, and Prowl found himself on top. He was straddling the hunter's hips, Lockdown's spike rubbing against his open valve. Prowl experienced a whole-body shiver. He sat up, arched his back, and rested his hands on Lockdown's waist. Lockdown bucked his hips and bounced Prowl in his lap. “C'mon then, kid.”

Prowl's fingers slipped against Lockdown's spike as he tried to grip it and guide it to his valve, and he realised with an embarrassed shock that he had been leaking lubricant onto the thick, hot length. Lockdown watched him with a predator's optics as Prowl eased the head of his spike against his entrance, and then sank down enough to take the tip inside. Prowl gasped, grit his teeth, and held his breath. His every sensor seemed to be working to double capacity, and Lockdown was _big_. 

“Too much?” Lockdown asked. Prowl hissed at the cocky way he leered at him, and shook his head. “Here...” Lockdown gripped his hip and steadied him. Prowl tilted his head back and gazed at the star-flecked sky as he cycled air rapidly, trying to keep his system cool. He controlled his downward slide, his every fibre sweetly tense. His valve clenched, and then opened up as the rest of the hunter's length slipped inside. His hips came to rest on Lockdown's, and Prowl had to sit and pant for several kliks as his frame adjusted to the new and intense stretch. Lockdown's spike throbbed inside him. Prowl's optics flared blue-white, and the forest seemed to light up, pulsing with life. Prowl could sense it all, his spark-awareness questing out of him in an unconscious reaching for connection. He was open and sensitive, and connected to everything. He looked down at Lockdown. Curling his frame, he pressed his hand against the hunter's chest. “I can feel you,” he purred.

Lockdown's hand slid down to Prowl's aft. He squeezed, and then rocked the lithe mech back and forth, making Prowl moan and Lockdown growl. “Y-yeah? Well I can feel you too. You feel fraggin' amazing.”

Prowl smiled and tilted his head back again. He rocked slowly, allowing Lockdown to guide him. The hunter's spike was wide and deep within him, and pushed against every node in his valve. He closed his optics and immersed himself in his senses. He kept his hands on Lockdown's chest, over the place where he could feel the unquenchable, pulsing force of the hunter's spark.

Lockdown rocked him slowly, and Prowl felt both their charges build. After a few kliks the hunter rolled them again, and Prowl found his wrists pinned once more. Lockdown kissed him hard, and Prowl kept himself open, surrendering himself to the other mech's potent lust and raging life-force. He squirmed, and bit at Lockdown's lips. The hunter thrust more deeply now, and Prowl gasped with every downward drive of his hips. His valve was burning, his whole frame on fire. Everything in his vision seemed to have a blue-white aura. He snarled like an animal, thrashed under Lockdown's hold. The hunter fucked him harder, kissed him, smothering and intense. Prowl overloaded with a scream of broken abandon, all his inhibitions and barriers shattered. Lockdown bit his neck. He pulled out, flipped Prowl onto his front, and thrust back inside. Prowl panted and moaned as the hunter took him hard and fast, and when Lockdown came Prowl felt the pulse and swirl of the hunter's spark, and it carried him into a second climax of his own.

Afterward, the forest clearing was very still and silent for many kliks. Prowl's vision was hazy, and everything still had an echo of its Allspark aura. He had a vague smile on his face, and didn't even mind Lockdown's weight pressing him down into the ground. 

Lockdown kissed his neck and then bit him hard enough to wake him up. He pulled out slowly, and even in his post-overload haze, Prowl noticed he was careful. He let Lockdown roll him over, and when he kissed him again he wrapped his arms around the hunter's neck. He felt warm and boneless, satisfied on a deeper level than he remembered experiencing in millennia.

Lockdown took his time closing up first himself, and then Prowl. When he stood up, he lifted Prowl with him. Prowl kept his hold on him, and nestled into the comfortable cradle of his arms, leaning against the heat of his chest-plates. He drifted, half in recharge, as Lockdown carried him through the forest. 

He looked up when Lockdown stopped, and his breath hitched in his throat. In a broad clearing in the trees, here on the far outskirts of the city, Yoketron's sanctuary stood in silent and peaceful disrepair. Like a relic from another time, untouched for a million years... Prowl's optics drank in the peaked roofs of the dojo, the shrine, the sprawling living quarters beyond. Here and there the roofs had collapsed, walls had caved in. Trees and vines curled like twining rivers of silver through the building's beams and broken walls. The central doors stood shut, however, and Prowl was struck with an eerie sense of _deja vu_ , as though nothing had really changed, and no time had passed.

“Why did you bring me here?” he whispered. A million years ago, Prowl had returned from his optics-quest to find his master dying, and all the protoforms stolen. A million years ago, Lockdown had robbed the sanctuary and struck their master down.

“Felt right,” Lockdown said. His vocals were hoarse and quiet, and gave nothing away.

They stood in silence. A warm breeze stirred the trees' crystalline leaves, and made ripples in the hexagonal pool that still held clean, clear solvent even after all this time. Then, Prowl said, “Let me down.” Lockdown obeyed. Prowl hesitated, and then walked forward. He glanced at the pool as he passed it. Tiny jewel-coloured nanobots flitted through the crystal-clear liquid, reflecting the starlight. 

Prowl ascended the steps to the entrance one by one. Lockdown followed at a distance, hanging behind. “I'm going inside,” Prowl said, though he knew he didn't need to. He stopped at the entrance, and stared at the closed double-doors. He put his hands out, and expected to find the portal sealed. The doors swung inward easily, silent as the breeze.

“I can't go in there,” Lockdown said. He sounded choked. Prowl glanced back at him, and gave him a grim nod. Lockdown began to pace at the bottom of the steps. He would keep guard until Prowl had done whatever he needed to do, until he had found whatever it was he was looking for. 

Prowl turned away, and stepped inside.


End file.
